Angel's Breath
by FallenAngelCyril
Summary: A series of relatively unrelated one-shots featuring various characters and pairings, but primarily JaimeSansa and AryaTywin. Written as fills for the A Song of Ice and Fire kinkmeme.
1. Four Nights: CerseiJaimeSansa

**This fiction consists of a series of relatively unrelated one-shots I've written for the A Song of Ice and Fire kinkmeme on LJ. You can find a link in my profile. The length and genres vary, from humor to fluff to horror.  
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**You can always find the most recent version of these stories on my LJ page - also found in my profile.  
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**Summary:** Cersei loves her broken little doll; Jaime is powerless to stop her. CerseiJaimeSansa  
**Prompt:**_ 'what happened to giving women flowers instead of heads?'_

_**Four Nights**_

* * *

**I.**  
A fog permeates King's Landing, one that smells so thickly of madness that Jaime tastes it: sour, like the stomach bile of a dead wolf. He hadn't noticed it at first, or perhaps he had simply not cared to heed it, but it soon became as obvious as the sun in a clear day's sky. His elation that he finally had the time to scrub the grime from his skin, so roughly that he almost tore it away, flesh red as if he had been in the sun for far too long and raw as if he had been skinned, dissipated as he learned how quickly the world changes when one is torn away from it.

It starts no more than a week after his return. He is overeager, excited, and takes risks he might not have in other circumstances, but it had been _too long. Too long since he'd seen her, too long since he'd touched her, too long since their bodies last united as one. _One time with Cersei, not even a proper night - next to Joffrey no less - was not nearly enough to sate him after his prolonged, miserable, filthy 'adventure.' Jaime's eyes dart through the hall, expectedly empty of all guards, as he moves with silence trained by a thousand nights of practice. Jaime had long held access to the schedule of rounds; he and Cersei have been taking advantage of the rare moments of vulnerability in security for as long as he remembers. He pushes the sturdy door to the Queen's chamber open without bothering to knock, warm satisfaction welling within him when he sees that his twin still leaves her room open to him, even after so long apart.

"Sis-" Jaime's mouth snaps shut as his gaze slips across Cersei's immaculate chambers and it is obvious that he and his other half are not alone. Cersei's large room is dark, more brown than black in its partial light, with its sole remaining candle burnt to almost its base; there's an unfamiliar light smoke in the air that Jaime recognizes as incense. Jaime's eyes work to adjust to the lighting as they focus on the intruder; it seems female, by its body shape, and sits closely enough to Cersei that their arms are touching. It quickly becomes apparent that they're comfortable around each other. The girl – Jaime almost believes it's one of Cersei's ladies in waiting, but knows of none who are that small or that Cersei would never show them such trust– pays little heed to Jaime, even as he draws closer in confusion. The two are holding hands, and Cersei has a warm, almost maternal look on her features as she stares at the child beside her. It's hard to tell the child's coloring in the dark, and Jaime does not immediately recognize her features, but he can tell she is unafraid, even though in her lap she clenches a doll as if it is a part of her. Cersei's guest looks down and away from him, but Cersei pushes the girl's chin up with her finger, as if to offer her strength. "My Queen." Jaime corrects belatedly, not realizing he never finished his welcome. The girl remains impassive, as if she does not care one way or the other, her eyes glued to Cersei as she watches her every move. Despite appearances, Jaime knows not express any familiar intimacy in the presence of another.

"Jaime." Even in the darkness Jaime knows the expression which covers Cersei's features, he can tell by the way she caresses his name that their thoughts and desires remain united, all that is left is to makes their bodies so. Her informality continues to worry him, but not nearly enough to distract him from his sister's future attention; it is a rare event when he is the cautious one instead of she. "Come Sansa, you must greet our guest." _Sansa. _Jaime's mind snaps back to reality and works fervently as he futilely prays the girl is not who he believes; he knows none of Cersei's servants or maids called such, and there's only one of high birth Cersei would keep so close who holds the name. The Queen pulls the girl up off the bed and tugs her over to greet him, firmly, but not-quite forcefully, enough to let her companion know she will not tolerate insubordination. The confirmation of his fears is immediately apparent as the girl's dark hair clearly becomes auburn as she approaches the light. The Lannister man is not sure if he feels relief that his ward is safe – or terror that Cersei seems to favor her.

"Perhaps it would be best if I returned another time. . ." Jaime retains his distance with a step back as he feigns that the meeting is unimportant. As he prepares to leave, Cersei clutches his arm, intentionally near where his right hand once was.

"Nonsense." The Regent's voice is not a whisper, but the husky tone she uses in seduction. All at once his lust returns anew, more stubborn and powerful than before.

She draws him close without another word, her lips just as he remembers as they make their way down his face and neck. He cannot stop his grunt of pleasure when she bites hard into him, enough to leave a mark, and leans his head back to more easily draw her into his arms. Jaime almost wishes to scold her, to tell her what a fool she is to reveal their relationship to a child, for he has no desire to harm another Stark for knowing things she should not, but nothing besides another light moan of desire falls from his lips as his twin draws him to her bed and works at his trousers with disturbing efficiency.

Sansa proves to be a good girl. Cersei barely needs to say more than two words and she nods and smiles and moves to vacate the area around the bed. Jaime does not look at her for more than a half-second beyond to see that she chooses to sit down on the floor nearby, doll still in hand. Sansa brushes its hair lightly with her fingers, but his attention is diverted and the Lannister man feels his hesitation slip away when Cersei's fingers play at his cock and he presses down on his twin.

It barely feels any different than any of their other times together, and only once does the girl's presence interfere with their coupling. The Stark girl gasps in worry in response to Cersei's louder moans, in fear that Jaime may have harmed her queen. His irrational mind, drunk on his hormone-driven lust, internally amuses itself with thoughts of how different Sansa seems from her mother.

**II.**  
Jaime returns the next night, drawn by primal desire. He follows the same patterns, the same methodological path through the castle until he reaches his lover's room. Again the door remains unlocked, but what he sees before him upon entry is quite different. Where the two females had been preparing for bed the night before, both are instead alert and awake, still not entirely dressed down for the evening, but informal enough that they are not expecting disturbance. Cersei's room is lighter on his second visit, and Jaime sees the two more clearly as he gently closes the door behind him, to not draw attention to any who might have heard him walking the halls. Neither female cares to look up; his twin knows his footsteps well enough that a smile crosses her features, but one very different from the lust-filled expression that often drives him to madness. The look tells him more than any words can: Cersei does not share Jaime's plans for the evening. Instead, Sansa sits with her doll in her hands once again, her back to Cersei, as the queen runs her brush through the maiden's hair; the girl, too, brushes the hair of her doll, which she clutches against her as one might cling to a rock in the middle of the ocean. Jaime sees the strange object with more detail in the light, a brown, almost leathery, thing, deformed by years of wear if he's not mistaken. It is unfit for most born of her rank, but the child seems fond of it.

"Good evening, brother." Cersei's words are pleasant and warm, as if she'd rather spend their time speaking than fucking. Much of the time she uses the tone in mockery or manipulation, but he can sense her genuine feelings behind it when she uses it with him. He's not heard the tone recently and he finds misses it. "You've come at the perfect time." The smile remains, but she continues to look at the pretty, pale thing in front of her. Even Cersei's fair skin seems almost tan compared to Sansa's almost grey complexion. Jaime inclines his head in curiosity, knowing his sister expects no reply until she finishes her explanation. "You're to bring a present for our dear Sansa." _Our?_ Jaime almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it, not only that she implies they share the Stark girl, but at how _his sister_ orders him about like a common servant. Cersei ignores Jaime's irritation, though he is sure she recognizes it, as she speaks to her companion as she might a child of no more than five years. "You'd like a present, wouldn't you?" The Regent questions the girl. Sansa blushes deeply and again turns away from Jaime, as she had the night before, before she quietly and assuredly nods.

Cersei waves Jaime over with an unfamiliar apathy - _she does this to annoy me_. He is in no mood for her games; his earlier purpose for coming quickly fades, arousal gone entirely, as it becomes obvious that Cersei's attention remains elsewhere. Jaime remains steadfast and silent until he's sure the woman understands he has no intention of obeying such an order – she can at least look at him if she wants to request something. It is the queen who relents first; his sister breaks the tense silence as she places her brush to the side and pushes at Sansa up. The girl is shy, not nearly so meek as she first appears, as she stands and aids the Queen to her feet with surprising strength given her lack of tone and muscle mass. "Sansa needs a new doll." Cersei motions toward the bundle in the girl's arms. "Go now, show Ser Jaime." The look in his sister's eyes is harder than the hardest metal; his earlier stubbornness almost falls away, but Cersei underestimates him. He returns her gaze with an equally cool look and prepares to speak; the words never form and Jaime is paralyzed, by no work of his sister's.

Sansa approaches carefully, respectfully, and retains her distance as she holds out her "doll." It takes every ounce of willpower in Jaime's body not to recoil in horror, but his sharp, low gasp echoes loudly in the silence of the room. _Is that. . .Joff? _No, impossible – Cersei would never allow it. The object which first appeared to be a doll was no doll at all, but a worn, decapitated head. The brown leather he saw earlier is skin, though it appears to be in the later stages of decay, as it looks to tear easily and is obviously falling apart. The hair is still remarkably thick and well taken care of, despite that it falls out in clumps in a similar manner as the skin. The girl lovingly runs her fingers through its hair, its color indefinable but he can tell it had been light before death, as she shifts her weight back and forth in anticipation. The foul thing did not smell, a wonder in itself, but its mouth is open in a perpetual scream and the nose looks like it might soon drop from its face. Jaime feels Cersei's eyes digging into him and he knows he is trapped. He blinks rapidly at the sight, hoping to clear his vision. He bites his tongue hard and runs his left hand over the stump that remains on his right, in hopes to learn that it is all a horrible dream; yet nothing changes, save the girl's look, which becomes more curious as time passes.

"And where am I to get such a. . .doll?" Are the only words his mouth forms as he looks up to the older woman. Jaime is half inclined to believe the girl cradles Eddard Stark's head in her arms, no matter how absurd the notion. Her father has been dead for far too long, the head she holds is fresher, but it explains her fascination with the hideous Lannister almost laughs at the thought, even if his stomach turns simultaneously; he has seen war and death, he has killed in countless ways, but some part of the back of his mind is appalled to see what was once such an innocent, naive girl twisted beyond repair.

"You're a resourceful man. You'll find a way." Cersei does not smile as she moves towards the girl and gently takes her in her arms. She leads the Stark back to the bed and again they sit together; their whispers and his breaths are the only sounds that shatter the peace in the oppressing room. The Stark girl continues to blush at whatever Cersei says, and gives infrequent small nods of both confusion and curiosity whenever Cersei motions towards her brother. Jaime knows he has no place in the room, not this night. The two are almost as young gossiping friends speaking of subjects boys are not welcome to hear. Cersei's gaze falls upon him before he turns away, her eyes holding silent orders: _**Now, **__brother. _Jaime almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. Cersei wants him to collect a _head_, of all things, but finally relents, knowing how temperamental his sister is when she does not get her way. A corpse should be easy enough to find, he supposes.

Just as he closes the door behind him, his sister's voice calls out, a harsh command, one she uses as a Queen to speak to her subjects: "Male, female, I care not, but do make sure it has hair."

There are times he wishes he can say "no" to the woman he loves.

**III.**  
He is not one to listen to rumors, but his curiosity about the young Stark girl finally gets the best of him. Sansa gives him no explanation, Cersei gives him no elaboration, the servants hold their tongues more tightly than he's ever seen before, and little Tommen is entirely oblivious, so Jaime goes to the knights. A few coins are all it takes for their lips to flap freely, where they did not even move the servants. Rumors about the Stark girl prove plentiful, but two stand out above all others.

"She was touched by the same poison that killed King Joffrey." Whispers one.

"It runs in the family. Tully side." Says another; Jaime is inclined to believe him.

If nothing else, Jaime can admit the Stark is a sweet girl; she's taken to smiling at him whenever he brings her new "dolls." Jaime does not know why he does it, or even how to stop, because, Gods forbid, he knows he's driving her further into the darkness. But then he sees her smile. His disgust falls away and only one thought fills him: she's relying on him. His gifts make her happy; he had brought warmth to so few in his lifetime, and making someone besides Cersei smile is surprisingly pleasing, satisfying in a way he did not expect to ever feel. If he ever speaks his thoughts aloud he knows his father and sister will call him "soft," but he is well beyond the point of caring. He often wonders if his promise to Catelyn is what drives him to act; equally likely is that it is his sister's affection and he feels some twisted responsibility towards those his twin loves. Perhaps it is both, or perhaps neither and their madness simply infects him as well.

He has been avoiding Cersei and her pet. He knows the Queen dresses the girl up and takes her out, dolls and all, and that they often spend time together chatting with the other women of court, even if the knights' rumors say that Sansa speaks little more than ten words a day. The Stark carries her heads – Cersei makes Jaime collect more than one on a sufficiently common basis in order to keep a properly fresh rotation – in a thick blanket with her wherever she goes, almost as if they are her children. He does not know what she does with them when she sleeps, and he is sure he does not want to.

Cersei knows his game. Jaime swallows visibly as the Lannister woman and the Stark girl stand outside his bedroom door, not quite an invasion of his privacy, but certainly an unwelcome surprise. It is still early in the evening, but with the girl's presence Cersei can walk through the castle, even to her twin's room, without questions. His sister almost pushes Jaime out of the way as she leads Sansa into his chambers; neither of them even bother to look around and Cersei leads her companion over to his bed. There is a smile on Sansa's features as she looks up at Jaime, blue eyes wide, and Jaime cannot look away from Catelyn Tully's girl, who he swore to see safe. "Sansa misses you of late." Cersei criticizes him openly as the two continue to stare at each other, but the girl does not blush, as she might have in their earlier meetings. The Stark does not hesitate to hold his gaze from her position at the side of his bed and, for a brief moment, he sees her mother. Jaime turns away in disgust, unable to face his incompetence. Sansa Stark will never return home.

Cersei's words are true; the girl is friendlier to him whenever he visits and it is more than rare smiles or words of thanks. No longer does she seem so shy, but he would not call quite call her bold, either. She acts the same as she does with Cersei: pleasant, open, sometimes even sharing a few words or giggles at Jaime's sardonic observations. She is never warm; Starks never are. Cersei seems to be enjoying her twin's awkward reaction and her voice holds amusement as she speaks to the girl. "Why don't you tell Ser Jaime what you told me?"

The girl is worried, that much is obvious. She looks over to Cersei with the first act of defiance he has seen, but it immediately melts away at the Regent's frown. Sansa breathes deeply before she speaks, her words first cautious, but stronger as she continues. "We. . ." the Stark stops herself as she runs a hand over her 'doll's' head to elaborate on who she references alongside herself "We'd really like it if you would stay with us." Jaime cannot stop the shock from crossing his features and, from the corner of his eye, he sees Cersei's lips curl in response. The Regent looks at Jaime as a lion would her prey; in that instant he wishes for nothing more than to steal the young thing away from his sister before she can taint her further. He opens his mouth to very politely reject the newly-bold girl, but she finishes, urged on by Cersei. "We're -" this time she references Cersei, as she looks to the Queen with a smile, who nods in return "- lonely when you don't visit."

Jaime releases a long breath as he muses on Sansa's words and pretends to ignore Cersei. The girl is still a child, after all, alone in a foreign household, danger surrounding her at all times. She's been hurt more than once; it makes sense that she might wish for comfort – or even a rare friend. If this was how he must protect what was left of Catelyn Stark's daughter, he would do it, even if it meant facing Cersei's self-satisfied smiles.

He stays with Sansa and Cersei that night, as the young Stark curls into the older woman. Cersei leans her head down over her, as if to kiss her cheek like she might Tommen's, but instead her lips make their way down and down and down, her mouth half-open, trailing along unmarred flesh. Jaime's eyes narrow in surprise, but then open widely as he watches the Queen suck softly, then bite a spot on Sansa's neck. It's a place he knows all too well; whenever his twin marks him, she chooses to do so in the same location, in the exact same manner and Jaime can almost feel the motion against Sansa as if it is done to him. Jaime almost thinks he's dreaming, or seeing something not there, as their bodies are only outlined by the pale light of the moon, and blinks to clear his eyes. The women's actions do not stop, and his vision is as clear as it's ever been; Cersei's mouth makes it way back up, feathery kisses bring forth small bumps across the girl's skin, before she finds Sansa's mouth. There is no gentleness in the way the Queen parts her companion's lips; she acts in a confident, familiar manner, as if this has all occurred before. Jaime needs not continue the thought, as a moment later he confirms its legitimacy, when Sansa continues the motion and presses her tongue into the Queen's mouth. The intimacy lasts for a long moment - it seems almost forever as he watches, as if time slows down - before the Stark girl finally releases the kiss and draws her head into Cersei's breasts, so she can sleep comfortably, doll cradled firmly between their two stomachs. The Queen smiles up at her brother as if nothing happened and instead grasps Jaime's only hand and places it in between hers and the Stark's. A small smile, no more than a wisp, forms on her features as she closes her eyes to sleep, more relaxed than he's ever seen her, and Jaime cannot muster the desire to remove himself from their shared grasp. As he drifts to sleep, far later than both Cersei and Sansa, he muses about how, despite having sired three of his own, strange it is that the first child who gives him a second glance does not share his blood at all.

**IV.**  
"I cannot stay with you tonight, pretty." Cersei strokes the Stark girl's hair in the same manner that Sansa strokes her doll's. Jaime watches as Sansa's eyes fill with tears as she clutches the Queen's skirt and Cersei delicately removes her fingers, much like a mother would do to a clingy babe. Some part of him is disgusted by the girl's reliance on his sister, another part accepts it as strangely normal, a third knows how hypocritical it is for him to even consider the first or second, as he is much the same way. "But you will not be alone." Cersei's voice is gentle, but her eyes speak a different language as she glares at her twin. She dares him to defy her; if it had been a few months before, he might well have. No longer is he so appalled by the twisted little thing; the broken creature once named Sansa Stark has grown on him. He does not deign lie to himself with the Catelyn excuse; one night with her, as a father might a scared daughter, would cause no harm. They might even enjoy the time together.

Cersei leaves without another word, for where he does not know, and the girl stares at the door, then at him, then back at the door, before her eyes finally land on him. Jaime does not know what to do with her; _how does one entertain a madwoman?_ He attempts to train and exercise, but Sansa clings so closely that he fears he might harm her. He looks to read, but Cersei keeps no books in her room that interest him. For a time he practices his writing, to get cleaner and smoother with his left hand, and Sansa seems to enjoy it as well, but the way the girl stares at him - her doll placed gently on the table, its decayed face and empty eye sockets staring at him with equal intensity as the frigid blue of its owner's eyes – makes it impossible to concentrate.

The evening is not even half through before he decides there is nothing left for him to do but rest. Again, Sansa seems to agree with whatever he chooses - when he tries to ask what she wishes for the only reply he receives is "_Whatever you like is fine._" - and changes into her nightshift, an obvious gift from Cersei, as he can tell by its revealing design. She crawls into Cersei's bed beside and facing him. Her doll presses closely between them, just as it was between Sansa and Cersei when the three had slept together before, and he pretends it's not there. Jaime swallows as the intense child stares at him, eyes unblinking. Her eyes are not the eyes of her mother.

Jaime turns over at the thought, so that his back is to the girl, but forces himself to remain close enough so that she touches him. A moment later, Sansa gives an annoyed huff and crawls over him, not bothering to move around the bed, before she again continues her gaze. The Lannister closes his eyes, unable to face the Stark, skin still as colorless as when he first saw her with Cersei, hair a bit longer; had he not known previously, if someone told him Sansa was Eddard Stark's daughter, Jaime would not have believed it. No more than a moment later, he feels her soft fingers on him as she draws her body close for warmth. Jaime's breath catches in his throat before he forces its release, surprised at the creature's boldness. As he exhales, he feels Sansa's finger press to his half-open lips gently, touch warm and unworn, playful yet cautious, and his eyes open in surprise. Rare unreadable emotions fill her features as the curious girl's fingers roam over his cheeks and beard, then back to his lips. Jaime catches her hand uncomfortably and places back onto her side, but she gives another smile.

For the first time that night, she closes her eyes and Jaime finds himself relaxing without the piercing look upon him. The thought vanishes an instant later; before he sees her intention, the Stark girl's lips press to his neck in a harsh suck and bite. She does to him what he once saw Cersei do to Sansa and what Cersei does to him; the feeling is familiar, and sends the warmth of arousal through him, as it is identical to Cersei's favored marks. His first reaction is to push her away, but his body does not follow his commands, especially as her mouth reaches his upper neck. _So very Cersei. _His breaths are rapid and sweat from nervousness paired with what he knows to be inappropriate lust covers him; it is said the mad rage if denied their desires and Jaime is unarmed and half-naked. The Stark's nails, almost as long as his sister's, would do more damage in the short term than he could do to her at their distance. His mind works frantically, but his body refuses to follow its commands as Sansa presses her tongue into his mouth.

In an instant the spell is broken and she distances herself. She does not look at him as she nuzzles into his chest and encircles him in a warm hug. "It's different. . ." She murmurs against him. Jaime silently disagrees; if the candles were dimmed and he did not know who shared his bed, he would not have known the difference in the feel of Sansa and Cersei's lips. There is only one woman who could have taught her, after all. ". . .But you're just like her." The Stark girl is not tired, he can tell, but Jaime says nothing in reply, knowing that it will only urge her forward. All he can do is feign sleep in order to escape the horrible creature his sister has birthed. "Never leave me." Are the words she repeats over and over into his ear, comforting, constant, for hours and hours on end, well past the point when her voice should fail, her throat parch. It permeates his bones and his essence and he doubts he'll ever forget anything she does to him.

Jaime wakes well into the night, the girl still in his arms. He is unsure how long it's been since Sansa's voice faded and he fell asleep, but the girl rests soundly and looks peaceful; were it not for her doll, he might believe her normal. His gaze sweeps around the room, not sure what wakes him, and a glint catches his eye. Jaime clenches his jaw in worry as he extracts his arm from the girl, who does not seem to care one way or the other in her deep slumber, and grasps the dagger he knows Cersei hides under her pillow. The Lannister moves cautiously, his footsteps silent against the cold ground as he approaches whatever he saw from the corner of his eyes. At first he thinks it's a dream, but as he grasps his hand – or lack thereof – and fumbles about the room with a decided lack of grace, he knows reality is the only place he can be.

There is little in the side of Cersei's room but Sansa's belongings. The only striking feature in the small corner is the rows of shelves, more than twenty at this point, each holding ten dolls. Sansa's dolls are remarkably well organized and their owner obviously deeply cares for them, but Jaime cannot help but feel discomfort as he enters the area. He presses his lips together in disgust as he continues his search for threats, but stops suddenly. His gaze is drawn to one area and he immediately knows this is what he searches for. One of the dolls is not nearly as decayed as the others, its skin still pale, soft and not leathery, as if the person had only died a day ago. Even its eyes were bright, as they stared vacantly into the moonlit room.

Jaime knows those eyes. It is disturbingly clear in that instant that Jaime Lannister is just as mad as his sister and Sansa, for he would swear on his very life that the head held on a pedestal on Sansa's top shelf, alone and surrounded by lovely red and black velvet, is that of Aerys II Targaryen.


	2. Cycle: JaimeJoffreySansa

**Summary: ** History repeats itself. JaimeJoffreySansa. Non-con, twincest.  
**Prompt:** _AU: It pleases the Crown Princess to think that Joffrey will resemble Ser Jaime in twenty years' time. But she isn't sure that she wants to wait that long._

Author's Note: This story is somewhat stylized, so the latter parts may feel strange or distant to read. This is intentional.

**Cycle**

* * *

Every morning, before the court breaks their fast, Prince Joffrey Baratheon summons those closest to him to his chambers.

Fewer people than normal surround the Prince's room on this day: four of Joff's companions - all aged between ten and five and ten and nine - three the Kingsguard, Queen Cersei, and two of the Princess's bedmaids. Cersei alone is seated, the chair a simple thing of deep red wood that is partnered to the desk near the head of the bed, where Sansa lies. The Kingsguard, Cersei wonders for a brief moment how Joff convinced them to come, stand around the large chamber, two on the far side of the bed, with the Queen's twin, Jaime Lannister, only three paces to her right. He is the only male in the room who appears entirely disinterested; Jaime comes on Cersei's orders, no more.

Cersei looks to the girl beside her, no more than two paces apart, yet separated by a gulf as large and deep as the ocean. Sansa's nightshift and undergarments have already been removed by her husband and all that covers her flesh are her small arms – her left crosses over her chest to cover her right breast in attempt to hide both and her right hand hides the patch of red hair in her lower regions. The expression on her face is kind, even welcoming; she is the perfect picture of a loyal, devoted wife who loves her husband very much. Cersei does not believe it for a moment; her eyes sometimes shed their mask, for no more than a short minute at a time, replaced with looks that are flat and cold, distant and hurt, scared and humbled.

The Prince only takes his Princess when others are watching.

Cersei does not turn away when her son takes the girl. A warm smile remains on her features as Sansa closes her eyes, but the Princess does not even feign pleasure as Joff has his way with her. He's painfully inexperienced in the way he gropes at her still-developing breasts and holds her down until large purple marks form on her stomach, arms, wrists, and neck. The bruises will be conspicuously absent later, Cersei knows, covered by the Princess's maids for her time in court. There is no kindness in him, no tender strokes or kisses that even Robert once tried with her. There is not even a sense of responsibility or respect – it might have been more tolerable for the young thing if there was. She is his bitch and nothing more.

It is over in less than two minutes, each thrust harder than the last, as the girl's vagina lacks any of the natural lubrication a woman normally produces during sex. Joffrey spurts his seed into the girl, withdraws, and shakes his cock over her stomach to get rid of any remains as to not dirty his undergarments. One of the young men, Cersei did not care to know which, murmurs quietly about how it is proper for a husband to please his wife as well. It's the wrong thing to say and her son's face clouds over in seething rage. The Queen can almost taste the venom on her son's tongue, but he instead turns away in what seems to be a rare bout of self-control.

"It's your fault, wife. Your cunt's too small." Is all he snaps as he turns, satisfied smile on his features, and removes himself from the bed to prepare for the morning meal. Cersei's eyes dart across the room in curiosity. All of Joff's friends are aroused, their cocks hard in their breeches, and she would be unsurprised if the Kingsguard who came are as well. She knows Jaime is better than them and does not even bother to look to him.

As Joffrey dismisses his companions, Sansa remains in the bed. She no longer bothers to cover herself and her smile fades as Joff turns away, entirely disinterested now that he's spent. The remains of Joff's semen drips down the Sansa's stomach and spreads around her thighs as she presses her legs together protectively. Her eyes remain straight ahead, unblinking, before she glances over to the Queen with as little turn of head as possible, expecting her to leave as well.

Who Cersei sees is not Sansa.

Robert's fingers are just as rough and painful; his cock only seeks her for lust. Her husband does not humiliate her, as Joffrey does to Sansa, and she thanks the merciful Gods for that; Cersei thinks to scold Joff sometimes, but knows that it will only make matters worse when he knows it bothers her_. This is simply his way_ – he'll calm with time, the mother in her knows. Jaime was just as rash and impulsive, if a bit better mannered, when he was younger.

Cersei sees a girl, disillusioned by life at court. Memories flash by quickly: rejected and humiliated, dishonored, bartered away to the man who was second best after the first choice was unavailable. _The court is not as it is in tales, daughter. _Cersei waves her brother out with uncharacteristic coldness, and pays little heed to him when he does not move from his place at her side. Instead she continues to stare at the girl, blue meeting green. Both had played the court's game long enough to know not to reveal expression in their eyes. Their twin gazes are trained to be flat and unreadable; no weakness is in the air between them. Despite the difference between beaten, naked girl and regal woman, body language is shared as if they are garbed the same. The Queen has not shown particular favor to the child in the past, but she knows she stares into a mirror of her younger self.

"You must endure." The Queen whispers to the Princess, so that her twin cannot hear. There's a flash in the girl's eyes, surprise, panic, worry – as if she expects Cersei to be furious for her dishonorable feelings. Sansa's lips press so tightly together that they turn white as she shakes her head fervently in denial. The feigned smile - that loyal, loving thing - pastes itself on her features again a moment later and she opens her mouth to speak, but no more than a squeak comes out as Cersei places a finger over her lips – _they should be swollen from kisses, not tense from worry_. The Queen is unsure whether to thank or curse Eddard Stark for the deeply ingrained honor he instilled within his daughter. "If you must, pretend he is someone you love. Someone you'd want inside you." Cersei has Jaime to help her through her marriage with Robert; this girl is alone.

The girl looks away and appears to muse on Cersei's advice. No more words are necessary; Cersei has never been one for comforting others, she expects the same strength from them as she expects from herself. The Queen pushes herself out of the chair and walks towards the door, Jaime at her side.

The next day is the same. The girl's hair is held back in a net, so that Joff can not pull it, but there are more people in the room. Cersei retains her place at the bedside, posture aloof and disinterested and Jaime stands beside her as he pretends to ignore what's happening before him. At first it was an adventure for the Prince; he declared, with the overt bravado found only in adolescent males, that he wanted the court to watch as he fucked his wife. None questioned him; she was his wife, after all. Even if she was not, Cersei had no doubt they would have looked the other way. Now it is some type of sick game, one twisted enough that even Robert, who never hesitates to look at a pretty face and explore a supple body, wants no part in it.

Sansa looks through the room quietly and meets the Queen's eyes for only a moment. The Queen offers no pity or apology for her son's actions, and Sansa expects none, and their moment of shared understanding is shattered as the Princess continues on and her eyes roam over to Jaime beside her. Her gaze remains on him for a long moment, looking him up and down almost as openly as Robert eyes his maids, before she forces herself to look away and move on. Jaime does not care to notice the girl's attentions - he refuses to look towards her - and the only reason he is present at all is at Cersei's request.

Joffrey swaggers in a moment later, already naked and fully erect. There's a wide smile on his features, one that his mother would have thought pleasant and warm had she not better known him. Cersei knows that predatory look is reserved only for his wife. Sansa's gaze finally lands on her husband after making its way around the room and, for a moment, she offers him that same smile she always does: kind, accepting, devoted. Cersei recognizes it now; it's the same expression the Queen uses on her 'friends' at court when she seeks something from them.

As her son penetrates Sansa, a few cheers from the younger men, boys who have never seen Joff's daily antics before, erupt. The girl hides it well, but Cersei notices the slightest intake of breath in distress. Her eyes search the room frantically and almost immediately land of Jaime. For three thrusts she watches Cersei's twin, before she closes her eyes, in quiet fantasy, her smile slightly different than before, more natural. Cersei can tell by the easier way that Joff slides his cock in and out of his wife that she's wet, their coupling no longer entirely forced; it's Jaime who evokes that reaction, not her husband.

"Brother." Cersei whispers to her companion next to Sansa's bed once the Prince and Princess have finished, a minute later.

"You've a severe look about you, sister." He sounds almost bored.

"You helped me escape." Cersei's voice is too low for anyone but herself to hear, a rare moment of weakness she expresses only to herself, and Jaime strains to listen. He lowers his head down with a frown. When she opens her mouth again, her fragility is gone, her voice stronger, but just as quiet. "Show her the same happiness you showed me."

There is no question of who 'her' is.

"I've no interest in-" Cersei grasps her brother's hand as strongly as she can. He's gloved, so she digs her nails into the skin of his wrist instead and almost hisses in response.

"Imagine it's me, if you must, but you'll do it." For a moment she wonders if it's hypocritical of her, to tie her brother to the same responsibility that both she and the young Princess face every day.

"As you say, my Queen." Jaime's gaze falls upon to the young girl, expression unreadable and distant. The twins will not share a bed tonight, and Cersei accepts her punishment.

"Once Joff leaves." Cersei finally releases the pressure on her brother's wrist. Without bothering to look at the room's occupants, the Queen excuses herself, her emotions swirling in a mixture of sadness, anger, and jealousy.

It's awkward at first, for all three of them. Sansa and Jaime refuse to look at each other, let alone speak after their first coupling, though the morning sex with Joff remains easy, her fantasies warming the Princess to him. Cersei must almost drag her twin back to the girl's room every morning; just as the Queen and Princess, the Knight does his duty. Cersei makes sure to fuck him harder than normal, even letting him lead, in her silent, unspoken apology.

There are moments Cersei hates the girl, for what she brings out in Joff and for how she is forced to share her brother. It feels as if Jaime is used, impure, dirty, when not touched only by her. But, then again, so is she. _Jaime must have felt this way when Robert first fucked me._

The court soon gets bored with Joff's game and even his lusty adolescent friends stop coming every morning. Six months after their marriage, only four people remain in their room alongside the two: Cersei, Jaime, and the Prince's two chosen guards for the day, sometimes even few than that.

She is not sure what provokes it, but Cersei remains curious about Sansa's and Jaime's progress. Under the guise of wishing to speak with her son, the Queen sometimes stays in the room, long after Joffrey and Sansa are finished, to listen to the two. Their couplings are deathly silent at first, beyond a few uncomfortable grunts from her brother and timid, pained squeaks identical to those Joff provokes from her daughter.

Even if they share the same soul, Cersei and Jaime's bodies remain different. Cersei sees only stills of the duo's relationship, much like paintings of the seasons. If their first couplings are the coldest of winter, then the second time Cersei listens – more than a full month later – it is spring, as no more pained sounds echo through the room, only fast, hard breaths. Breaths become moans and squeaks become kisses in their relationship's summer and the Queen knows she needs not hear any more from them.

Once, while Cersei fucks her brother - a brief foray in the middle of the day, but neither can hold themselves any longer - she sees a small mark Sansa left on Jaime. The Queen makes sure to leave an identical one, just as clearly.

Cersei knows that Jaime and the girl are closer when, one day, she notices Jaime press his eyes closed. His cock is almost as hard as their son's as Sansa's squeaks in pain, and he looks so _disgusted_ with himself for it. Jaime leaves early that day and refuses to meet with her that night. When the Queen returns to her son's room the next morning, she sees a small bracelet on the girl's wrist, elegant only in its simplicity, for no gems adorn it, nor any elaborate pattern. There is only one person who would have given it to her, someone who did not want his relationship known.

It is in that horrible instant when the Queen realizes that she has lost a small corner of her other half's heart to the Princess. To Cersei's surprise, she finds it does not bother her; Sansa, too, holds a place within the Queen: as the girl who dreams of happiness with a handsome prince, but now knows it will never be.

Little more than a year after her wedding day, Sansa Baratheon declares she is with child.

The first man the Princess permits to hold her newborn son, despite all arguments by family members and maids who tell her otherwise, is Jaime.


	3. Defiler: JaimeSansa

**Summary: **Mini-fill. No matter how far they run, the past always catches up to them. JaimeSansa.  
Prompt:_ Cersei knows what they're doing, they think they can fool her but she knows, she has always known. _

**Defiler**

* * *

"Here?" Sansa gasps out, the only word she can form before Jaime forces his lips onto hers once again. She barely has time to breathe before he pushes her against the wall.

"Why not?" For the first time since dinner Jaime's mouth moves from her skin as he tears off her bodice. He's already slipped from his clothes - he practically tossed them down the hallway with each step - and now all that's left between their flesh is the flimsy dress she wore for supper and some undergarments.

"This was your sister's room." Sansa's eyes dart around warily, but she can make out nothing in the darkness. Some part of her is curious to learn of Cersei's private side, to see the woman and not the Queen. Another is terrified, and the girl feels as if she intrudes or, worse, defiles it. Sansa's wariness dissipates at the thought, thinking of how the normally composed former-Queen might react to her twin being fucked by a Stark in the room that used to be hers.

"All the better." His mouth finds her neck as the rest of her clothes drop to the floor. Sansa agrees with a breathy moan; she can almost see the woman quietly fuming, her eyes narrow, her jaw set. She giggles at the thought and pushes her mouth as fiercely on Jaime as his was on hers only a moment before. The darkness is complete around them, the only light shines in from under bottom of the closed door.

Sansa tilts her head up, gaze on the ceiling as she is forced up and down against the wall, over and over. She barely feels the way her back scrapes, her mind clouded by hormonal desire and the feel of her husband inside her. With all the sounds they make, there's no doubt all the servants in Casterly Rock know exactly where they are and what they're up to. She runs her hands into Jaime's hair and forces him as close as possible as she encircles his waist with her legs. He mumbles something incoherent that sounds more like a bizarre mixture of a moan and a gasp than words and Sansa lowers her head once again to nuzzle him.

_There_. Across the room Sansa sees it. The light is faint enough that she can see the outline of shapes near the door. Someone's watching them. The person's eyes reflect what little light there is in the room, unblinking, staring at the newly married Lord and Lady. Sansa meets those eyes before she presses her own closed in fear.

"Wait." She clutches onto her lover and presses her face into his neck. Sweat covers both of them now, so thickly merged that neither can tell who is hotter.

"What's wrong?" Twice more he pushes himself in her, his words interrupted by the exertion. Sansa opens her eyes again and the gaze - green, she can tell - continues from its corner. She can just barely see the outline of a bodice, of finely groomed hair and an elegant dress, but it's no more than a wisp, like the moon on a cloudy night.

"She knows." Sansa turns her face to the side, and she knows the eyes follow her. A moment later, the person appears again in her vision, in the other corner of the room. Sansa's nails clutch so hard into Jaime that she fears they're going to pop off; the sudden warmth of his body becomes very welcome in the chill.

"Who?" She can almost see her lover blink in confusion, as she feels him turn away, their lovemaking at a temporary halt. He sees nothing, blind as he always is to his sister. He senses Sansa's unease - he knows her so well; Gods, she loves him for it- and moment later he continues to gently play with her nipples in order to distract her.

"It's nothing." Sansa murmurs and closes her eyes. She kisses her husband with a smile, even though in the dark she knows he can't see it. But Cersei can; the emerald eyes continue to gleam in the far corner, never approaching, never leaving, always watching.


	4. During Recesses: JaimeSansa

**Summary:** Jaime shows Sansa a long-held Lannister tradition. JaimeSansa.  
**Prompt: ** _As the Queen holds court, bored on her Northern Throne listening to the daily grievances, her Lord Commander keeps leaning in and whispering what he wants to do to her and where. Sansa tries to maintain composure._ _(Dirty Talk)_

Warning: Strong language.

**During Recesses**

* * *

"She has nice teats, but her cunt probably smells like rotten cheese and tastes even worse."

"Jaime!" Sansa hisses under her breath at her Lord Commander. He does not even blink at the Queen's tone and there's the hint of a smirk on his features as he moves his head away from her ear and openly leers the woman who kneels before the throne. The woman is full-figured and young enough to still be considered beautiful, but her skin is dirty, her hair matted, and Sansa is sure she has lice and likely more than one disease.

The Queen ignores her Commander's subtle chuckle as she replies:

"I understand your distress, but I can and will not spare manpower to arrest a man who is guilty only by your word." She tries to keep her tone under tight control and only barely succeeds. Sansa read over the girl's report earlier in the day; a man apparently stole something and beat her, yet all evidence - including multiple first-hand accounts that stated the man was elsewhere – showed that she lied.

"I wonder how many cocks she sucked to get her plea to you. Judging by the administrative layers -" Jaime appears to seriously consider it. "- I'd have to say at least six." Sansa does not silence him this time; in the back of her mind she's thinking the same thing. A small smile flickers across her features before she catches it; Jaime sees it, too, and she knows that she makes a mistake. It only urges him on when he knows she agrees with him.

Sansa dismisses the woman before she can continue her pointless, almost ridiculous, pleas and leaves her punishment for the court's Justice to decide, preferably at a moderate fine of some sort. Jaime looks almost as bored as she. Sansa is half-tempted to believe he does not bother to hide his body language, but they've known each other for long enough that she recognizes even the simplest of changes. As he spends most of his time silently at her side as a protector, their communication quickly becomes silent, innate and natural, as if they had known each other for their entire lives. No doubt she looks just as weary as he in his eyes.

"My Queen, if I may?" He murmurs a few minutes later, after Sansa finishes with two more of her subjects. Said Queen tilts her head towards him curiously with a nod. "Look to your left."

She obeys with a frown, the sound of her subjects and her assistants droning in her ears at the back of her mind, but there's nothing out of the ordinary. She gives Jaime a strange look before he releases an exasperated breath, as if it should be obvious. "On the Alchemist's table – the side nearer to us."

"What of it?" Again, nothing seems extraordinary and Sansa's frayed nerves from the long day are wearing thin. Jaime's exasperation turns to a temporary look of mock sadness, and then a smile. He leans close to her, so that his bangs fall in front of her eyes and for a moment she can only see him. His tone is predatory and sends pleasant chills through her. It takes all of her strength to not shiver as his breath touches her. To those around, it looks like the Queen and the Lord Commander are quietly conversing, likely in a short debate about how to deal with their subjects.

"How do you think it will feel when I lean you over the table and stick the pestle into your cunt?" Jaime ruins the moment of secret closeness and Sansa barely catches her mouth as it falls open. "I wonder; do you think it's bigger than me?" He purses his lips. "I don't know, it's a bit shorter, to be sure, and, if I may say so, its girth is-"

"This is not the time." She clamps her mouth closed and turns away but she can feel the heat rise to her face at the image. She desperately tries to avoid the comparison, but it stubbornly persists and she can almost feel Jaime swelling in satisfaction beside her – _what will my subjects say if they learn their Queen is comparing a cock to a pestle_?

Next up is a man Sansa has seen before many times in the past. He's common, a breeder of horses, swine, and hounds, but a good, loyal man who serves her with the same devotion he once did her father. He comes to reassign and negotiate a contract that he shares with the royal family.

"What about the horses?" Jaime questions offhandedly to her in the same quiet manner. He keeps his distance this time, and Sansa keeps her eyes straight ahead, as if he's not said a word as to not make a show of their common conversations.

The Queen muses for a minute, before she answers with what her father once told her. "His horses are some of the finest –"

"To be sure, to be sure." The Lord Commander interrupts, obviously lacking in interest. "How fast do you think they'll have to run to get them to do the bouncing for me?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about." He can't mean _that,_ can he?

"You'll not be riding sidesaddle this time." Again he chuckles. Sansa's mind fills with the image_: Jaime and she, bareback, on one of his largest beasts. She sits in front as the creature trots, Jaime inside her and she clutching him close as its gallop pushes him farther in than ever before –_

"You've proven your service well in the past. The contract will be written by the master of coin." She is amazed her voice rings as clearly as it does, for her tongue feels thick in her mouth and her heart races. It's all she can do to keep her breaths evenly paced.

Sansa calls the next subject in waiting rapidly, so Jaime does not have time to tease her. He says all these. . .things. . .to her with a straight face. To those in court, Jaime is the very image of perfect Lord Commander: impressive, beautiful, unyielding, politically minded, flexible, flawless– Sansa long before stopped considering his lack of a hand a flaw- and loyal. If only his mouth was as fine as the rest of him.

"Fine, fine, I understand." The Lord Commander speaks later, during a delay, one of the few free moments she's allowed in the hours and hours in her throne. If she did not know him better, she might believe the sad look in his eyes and subdued tone from her earlier dismissals. She knows he teases her. "You're an elegant woman, my Lady. You prefer more normal, subdued unions."

"Yes." She nods cautiously, not sure if Jaime finally plans on stopping, or if he leads her into a lion's den.

"Then why don't we try the rug?" He nonchalantly waves his hand over to the floor near oversized fireplace. The "rug" was a thick bear skin, its head, paws, and claws attached on each corner. A fine thing, though she knows Jaime thinks it's somewhat barbaric. The Queen supposes it's better than his earlier recommendations, and it does not embarrass her nearly as much, though her irrational mind, almost as dirty as her companion's, whispers about how they'll both be far too hot if they fuck by the fireplace.

"What's wrong with the bed?" she counters. Jaime's eyes cloud over in thought and, for a moment, Sansa thinks she's won. He does not start speaking again until the next group fills in.

"You'll lay with the cusp of your back on its head so that it lifts you in the air. You'll rock back and forth a bit more easily, too." To her horror, he makes a small motion of her rocking, her back curved like a 'C,' with his only hand, using the side of her throne. She slaps him away gently, like she might a butterfly, and she can feel his laughter.

"Legs spread on the open mouth side, I hope. You'll have to watch yourself and make sure you stick your cock in the right hole." Sansa's mouth snaps shut as she realizes she says the words aloud.

The Lannister man is a horrid influence and the Queen thanks the Gods that she did not speak in her courtly voice for the entire room to hear. They would laugh, of course, some even in genuine amusement, but no longer would she be their perfect, rigid, ice Queen, who shows no emotions while on the throne. Even if only Jaime knows of her moment of weakness, she wants nothing more than to slump deeply into the throne and hide her head, refusing to see anyone. She silently apologizes to her mother and father, to Arya and Robb, to Bran and Rickon and Nan, and everyone else who raised her and vows to never lose control again. She is a highborn woman, not some low thing – or Lannister – who speaks the first vulgarities on their mind. Her apologies are sincere but half-hearted, as the tingle in her abdomen warms her entire body, her breaths speed up, and she can feel her arousal as she imagines herself rocking on that bear's head, guided by Jaime, no matter how uncomfortable it first appears.

"You're surprisingly quiet." Sansa whispers much later, during another short break. Jaime's not spoken a word since the Queen made a fool of herself and he remains at a professional distance. Even the warm lust that earlier coursed through her dissipates and she is very alone. It is when she is alone that she is strongest and most impassive, relying only on inner strength alone, but also the most frightened and vulnerable.

"I'm lamenting the fact that I've only one hand." He blinks in surprise at Sansa's acknowledgement, as if he truly thought her angry at him. She wants to trail her hands down his face so that her fingers stroke his jaw, run them through his beard and down his neck and to tell Jaime that she's mad at herself, never, ever him. The Queen blinks rapidly when she realizes she stares at him. It's his bloody influence again; the vivid images he puts in her mind make her feel and act irrationally. She should not be sitting before her court fantasizing about her Lord Commander, even if only warm, comforting strokes.

There is silence between the two for long moments. "Jaime. . ." she finally whispers and looks to her hands, not even hearing those who speak to her. She does not care that, in that moment, she look like an insecure child on a throne far too large, as all that dances through her mind is _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime._ The Queen knows that she is unable to understand how he feels, even knowing how much the loss changed him. He gets this way, sometimes, dark and quiet – or perhaps this is now his natural persona, the rest a defensive mask. There is much they do not share with each other, wounds they wish to hide and pretend never exist. The past is the past.

"If I'd two, I might be able to –" the playful tone returns and Sansa cuts him off before he says what she _knows_ he's going to say. Her Lord Commander just had to ruin her moment of sympathy.

"I don't want to hear it." She grits her teeth and uses her strongest voice on him, her eyes cold. The Lord Commander looks shocked at her reaction and his gaze darkens before he turns away. There is silence between them again until after she finishes with three more groups of subjects.

"I see the problem now." Jaime muses almost immediately. The dark look is gone and he has a glint in his eyes when she glances over. The smirk from earlier returns and she knows he tastes victory. His confidence confuses her, as Sansa feels she's regained the control of the situation she earlier lost, no longer does her body pulse with constant arousal and her blush has fallen from her cheeks. "You're bored with me." He declares, head upturned, much like a spoiled child.

"What? No, nonsense." Sansa replies belatedly after giving her orders to her assistants so that they bring forth the next group.

"Do not misunderstand; I know how Queens are." Sansa raises an eyebrow, fully looking at him, not sure if she should be insulted or flattered. Jaime's tone turns wistful; his eyes look almost as if he fantasizes. "Perhaps I'll don my armor and you'll order me to take it off, piece by piece. I don't trust you know how to use a whip, but you will need a scepter of some sort to command with. Perhaps that pestle will do?"

"No!" Sansa grates out, much louder than she intends. The words do not echo more than a few paces, but it's enough to surprise everyone near her.

"My-my Queen?" Her assistant gasps far more loudly than she, and the entire hall's attention turns to her. For a long moment there's a thickness in the air and Sansa feels very much alone under the pressure of expectations.

"Forgive me, friends. I spoke out of turn." Sansa knows that, as Queen, she need not apologize, even if she speaks out of turn. It even lowers her, or so Jaime says, and she can feel his metal hand on her shoulder as a firm reminder of that. It is he who speaks in her place, relieving her of the uncomfortable duty of trying to explain her actions.

"The court is now in recess. We will resume two hours from now." Though he is respectful, there is steel in her Lord Commander's voice, and a subtle command that Sansa has not yet mastered. It's in these small ways he still teaches her, even when he does not realize it; despite all of his foul comments, the way he embarrasses and teases her, the Queen knows she is lost without him.

Gods curse the Lannister; he knows it just as well as she. He offers her his good hand as she stands from her throne with that same childish, mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Sansa shakes her head in exasperation, but can't bring herself to speak against his plans. The image of her Lord Commander stripping his armor piece by piece at her word – _if_ he can even get it off one-handed and without a squire, but refuses to let the thought get in the way of her fantasy - is far too tempting for her to pass up.


	5. Queen: JaimeSansa

**Summary:** Mini-fill. Sansa is not quite a Queen. JaimeSansa  
**Prompt**: _She'll only let him touch her through her clothing._

Author's Note: My wonderful friend, _lainemontgomery_ has written an alternate, better, and extended version of this story called **_Bargains_**, for which I am deeply honored. I suggest you read it on her LJ of the same name.

**Queen**

* * *

It's been more than three moons since Jaime left to relay her missive to Highgarden.

"More." Sansa murmurs.

He's not the best diplomat - the last time she sent him south in her name she had to send another three score men to get him out of confinement in the Tyrell castle for some obnoxious comment or another - but he's the only one she trusts. Even if Sansa hears him grumble _A Lannister always pays his debts_viciously when she tells him he must return to Highgarden, they both understand the necessity of his absence.

"My Lady, if I may -" The servant tries to interrupt, but Sansa does her best to imitate a glare. A pain works its way into her heart, as she remembers how Jaime always laughs when she tries it on him. He says she's more amusing than intimidating, but if she practices enough, she'll come around. It seems to work well on the maids and they scurry back to their work.

He shocks her, the loyal knight, her friend, the man she loves. For all they name him – Kingslayer, oathbreaker, traitor - she finds that he is more loyal and devoted than any other. It frightens her when she starts to understand; her world view shatters before her. Her father taught her honor above all else and her mother was a Tully – _Family. Duty. Honor._; Sansa Stark learns that there's more to honor than oaths, than loyalty, and that there are even times that one must discard both if they want to do what is right. Jaime gives everything for her, even as he sheds his honor to do so.

The world is not so black and white.

"More." She repeats, firmly. She's been working on her tone of late, in mimicry of her mother. She hears the whispers that say she is unfit, a weak queen who will die faster than her brothers, but she does not listen. Sansa knows she must prove them wrong and become the one they sing of, even if only on the outside.

The young Queen can barely breathe in the tight corset, but finally nods in satisfaction at her appearance in the mirror. Her orders are very clear: She's to look like a woman.

Her breasts are still small, her hips thin, her skin delicate, face fat in its youthfulness. She is not quite regal and elegant - but also not clumsy or childish; the rest is easy enough to emulate. Her maids do their best with her, they pad her bodice to add to her bustline - she's large now, and her breasts almost spill out the top before she's satisfied - her dress chosen intentionally to enhance the size of her hips and bottom. They paint her face and style her hair and she looks every bit the Queen she knows she is not.

It's all for one moment.

When Jaime returns, worn, frustrated, and dirty, but satisfied, his eyes roam over her. The man, Sansa pretends not to care about the age difference, does not hide his hungry gaze, even as he speaks his reports. Sansa is inexperienced in the arts of seduction, but she can tell by the way his body reacts - his breath is faster, his eyes blink, his tongue absently roams over his lips, his cock grows within his breeches – that all of her efforts to become the woman he needs pays off.

He wants to take her then. Jaime moves close with boldness that alarms even her. He runs his hand down her side, up her hip and through her hair; it had taken almost two hours to style it properly and is ruined in an instant, but it's all worth it. His mouth is hungry on her and there's nothing she wants more than to have him by her side, to taste him, to hold him. She does not care how dirty he is, or that he smells from travel. This is the Jaime she loves, the one who does not pretend with her, the Jaime who is not the man stories tell of – neither Kingslayer nor Golden Knight.

She stops him, then, as he starts to remove her clothes and she realizes her hypocrisy. Who Jaime sees before him is the Queen and the woman she will become, not the girl she is. Sansa refuses to let him touch her body in fear he might recognize how small her breasts are - barely capable of holding up the bountiful cleavage in her dress - how her hips hardly protrude at all, and how she's not nearly as confident as her aloof posture implies.

Jaime Lannister will not witness his delicate Queen without her mask, not yet. He is the only one who sees her as a woman, even when she cannot see it herself.


	6. Visions of : CerseiJaime JaimeSansa

**Summary: **And then they were one. CerseiJaime, JaimeSansa.  
**Prompt: **_He calls her "Cersei", and she likes it_  
_Also, a second prompt: They're both imprisoned by Ramsay Bolton while trying to take back Winterfell. They're put in side by side cells. Even in the worst conditions they can't keep their hands off one another! _**  
**

**Visions of. . .**

* * *

_**Red.**_

Jaime is not a scholarly man. He leaves philosophy to the philosophers, as they take up numbers like he takes up his blade – or so he used to. He decides one day, in the darkest of moments, that he may even toss that to the side, for it's easier for him to think on the ways of the world than to relive his worst memories, every moment of the day, for days on end, until he starts talking to himself, giggling, and laughing like Aerys as the world burns around him. Philosophy becomes a good deal more pleasant to muse upon when it's all that keeps him whole. The Lannister considers what is most obvious, yet what he misses most of all in his captivity; in the shadows of Winterfell, he cannot define a second from a minute, a minute from an hour, and when he tries he spirals into an abyss that contains endless repetitions of 'how,' 'what,' 'why,' and 'when.'The research of time becomes one of his primary topics and he knows enough about it that he might well write a book if he ever gets out of the cursed place. _If anyone can even read it with my horrible script, _he sneers, jaded well beyond the point of caring one way or the other.

He opens his eyes for a rare instant. Jaime sees the man, mostly his outline in the candlelight, and does not even bother to hold back his disgust. _Bolton_. Jaime struggles fruitlessly against his bonds, as he does every day. Just as during the day before, and the day before that, and the one before that, the leather digs deeply into his skin, the metal slicing large gashes into him as he works desperately to loosen himself. He fantasizes about nothing more than tearing the man's throat out with his golden hand - wherever it is, for he lost it ages ago – and at times it's all that keeps him sane from one hour to the next. Perhaps it's Bolton's game, to watch his little lion struggle, but Jaime refuses to give in on his hands and knees, just as he refuses to break.

Or so he'd like to say. The man stands over him with a smile – Jaime would only describe it as disturbingly polite – as he plays with the object in his grasp as gently as he might a glass of wine. The Lannister man knows the touch of the hot iron as intimately as he knows his sister's hands, and refuses to flinch away at the sight of it – all black metal, and the red - red, red, so very red – and glowing from its time in the fire, like a blacksmith's tools, brighter than any of the tallow in the room._ I won't scream. _ Jaime almost laughs in self-mockery; he said the same thing when he lost his hand, just as he says it every day. A moment later his silent oath is broken and he giggles to himself in pain-induced madness before he sees only red.

_**Gold**._

It is impossible to know when his eyes are open. The dungeon – if it is even that, for he has never been in a dungeon quite like this – is completely black. The walls are thick and stifling, and no sounds penetrate them, no light pierces through cracks in the door or walls, and there are no windows so to speak of, causing the air in his cell to be dank and moldy. Even the hall beyond the large, heavy door that marks his only entry and exit is utterly black and as silent as the dead. There is no drip of water down the walls, no footsteps beyond the door or from the floor above him, no cries of soldiers or guards. There are times if he wonders if he's gone deaf from his own screams.

The door to his room opens in an unhurried manner and his vision is filled with gold. The candle – or perhaps a lantern or torch, he cannot tell – is painfully bright to a man who sees only darkness for days on end and he presses his eyes closed instinctively to protect himself. Two pairs of footsteps enter the room, one light the other heavy, and he blinks rapidly until his vision clears.

"Cersei." Is all he whispers, his surprise is evident, never expecting the woman would come to him. His voice is incapable of uttering more than a single word as his eyes run over the woman's hair, gold vividly enhanced by the lantern light, down her body, and over her dress. Even the one word is painful and feels as if it tears at his already-hoarse throat, but he's not sure if the tone he speaks is relief or anger. He wants to ask what she's doing in Winterfell, demand to know why she's come, and if she's gone mad, but cannot find the strength to do more than tilt his head.

Her escort leaves a moment later, the large door slamming shut behind them with force that causes the walls to shake, locking her in with him. His eyes slowly adjust to the new light source, an oversized tallow candle which his guest places on the ground beside the door. Her dress swirls red around her as she stands back up and approaches, all color lost as she steps into the shadow. There are no words shared as she runs her hands over him; Jaime wants to whisper, to tell her that he's dirty and he should not touch him, but he doesn't want her to ever stop. He wants to run his hand through her hair, but his arms are shackled above his head and he can do little more than lean into her warm, familiar, _clean_ touch.

It hurts, by all the Gods it hurts. His body responds to her, his torn muscles tense, his skin cracks and his wounds reopen. He holds back his grunts of pain as her fingers reach his face, brushing off dirt and flecks of blood, her fingers trailing down his jaw and brushing his hair back. Jaime's body tremors so strongly it's almost a convulsion as she brings her lips to his cheek and her face to his neck. She very delicately leans into his chest – but no matter how lightly she presses, even a feather's touch sends sharp pains through him –and he feels teardrops fall from her eyes onto his shoulder.

He doesn't know how long she holds him like that, but it's long after the point that her tears dry and Jaime's body goes numb, more feeling in his right hand than anywhere else. There are so many words left unspoken and even when he tries to broach the subjects, his voice breaking at every word, Cersei just looks up to him, expression unreadable in the dark. He does not know how long they stay like that, but their time together is ruined by a large gruff voice from outside the door, calling unintelligibly to both of the room's occupants. His guest releases a small irritated sound under her breath before she pulls herself away.

"Cersei?" He breathes out. He's not sure if the word holds all of his longing, all of his spite, or both, and she barely turns back to look. The woman's face turns downward and she offers no reply as she walks towards the door and knocks three times rapidly. She leans down to the candle, the red of her dress shining into her hair, merging the colors, as he closes his eyes once again and welcomes the peace of darkness. "Why are you leaving me?" He murmurs to himself, knowing full well he refers to more than just her presence.

The tiny voice in the back of his mind whispers that she is already gone, already lost. He hates her for it all the more.

For a time, Jaime considers that he dreamed her presence, that she was only a hallucination brought upon by extended periods of loneliness and endless pain. Then he feels the remains of her tears drip down his shoulder, and the stickiness of his blood, smeared over his chest by her fingers, and he knows that he's not that mad. Not yet.

_**Red**._

His time in captivity at Riverrun did not have nearly so profound effect on him. Jaime was a different man then – a bit brasher, more confident, and infinitely more foolish – and, when he looks back at it now, he sees how twisted his priorities once were. He wonders if the person he once was would have made such a miscalculation or if he would have found a way to save himself and his Queen. _Yes_ – he knows the answer instantly. _That _Jaime would have been the even greater fool; he and Sansa's heads would have been introduced to the executioner's axe. Or, rather, his would and Sansa would have been left to the mercy of the Bolton brat.

He does not know how long it is before Sansa visits him. The girl is roughly thrown to the ground by the guard and the tallow she holds only barely avoids setting her clothing on fire. He might have laughed, were he younger, but he recognizes the situation they are both in and finds himself decidedly lacking in humor.

"Ser Jaime." She's returned to calling him 'Ser' again; it hurts him in a way Bolton's games never could. He is unsure if it's because Sansa's angry at him, disenchanted by her loyal knight, or if she thinks someone might be listening and does not wish to reveal the depths of their relationship. Neither of them are particularly pleasant options, but the latter worries him most. He wonders if, during some point in the countless days and nights under the hand of his captor, he broke down and murmured her name, spoke of his wishes and desires, or betrayed Sansa in ways he never intended to.

She draws close and attempts to dust off her skirts – or what's left of them - from where she fell. Her voice is quiet, as if she does not want the men outside to hear her. Jaime knows better; the walls are too thick. "Are you well?"

_Does it look like I'm bloody 'well?' _Her question sounds pathetic to both of their ears, but Jaime is too weak to bite out the venom that so desperately wishes to leave his tongue. Instead he releases a long, painful breath that causes him to cough deeply, lungs thick with mucus. "I'm fine." He can't muster the strength for the sarcasm, so his tone falls flat and they both know it's a lie. Some part of him is pleased that someone – _anyone _– still cares enough to ask what he wants, how he feels. Father and Sister certainly never did either.

She runs her fingers down his face and he almost wishes to push her away, even though his confines do not allow it. _He_ is the one who is supposed to protect _her. She should not be comforting me. _Her eyes run over his arms, untouched by Bolton's games but torn apart by the leather and metal chains and manacles that tie him down as he struggles, chest, which has been rubbed, whipped and beaten raw so many times he might well have been flayed, his legs, where large, thick wounds remain, dirty from whatever shit and piss his body unknowingly released in his torture sessions, as he's not bathed in what seems like a year. She forces her gaze to look over his wounds – the Lannister has so many that even he forgets where they are at times – and he can tell by her loose jaw, mouth working to form words, and her rapid blinks that's she's struggling to hold back tears.

"Queens do not cry."He breathes out as confidently as he can, to give her what little strength he has left. In his mind, he sees Cersei, the way he comforted her and protected her, and how he pretended he never saw her tears, or the way her shoulders quaked in sadness. Jaime was the only one she ever showed them to. The words feel strange coming from his mouth, knowing that he tells her a lie, but he wills her to stay strong.

"I am no Queen." He half-expects the words to be filled with regret, but he hears a stubborn bite beneath them that reminds him even more of his sister: _Not yet. _Whatever is left of his pride wells within at that, only to slip away as she runs her finger down his face. He so desperately wants to lean in, but his body refuses to move. Her fingers are so warm and familiar; he wants to entwine them into his own. The ghostly fingers on his right hand move about, as if they stroke her in return.

"This is. . ." Her hand lands on a particularly large wound on his side, a deep, wide gaping hole, encrusted with burnt black flesh around the edge and oozing pus near the center. It was one of the wounds Bolton made days ago with hispoker, one of his favored methods. Jaime twitches in pain and all of his muscles scream at the panicked motion. Sansa draws her fingers away as she realizes what she does and grasps her hands together against her chest. Her eyes roam up and down his body again with that same stubborn persistence that has kept her alive this long. "I'll find a way out. I swear."

"Good luck with that." For all his spite, he finds the words comforting.

_**Gold.**_

His mood is as foul as the stench of his wounds. He's too weak to bother moving and his head rolls to the side, his mouth halfway open, his breaths painfully deep and rapid. _Jaime._ He thinks his name to himself over and over: _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime._ He plays with it, its pronunciation, its tone, as each syllable brands itself into his soul. It's the only part of his identity that he has a strong hold on.

There are times he sees flashes, visions, faces, emotions, all of which he cannot name but knows are a part of him as much as the name he cannot stop repeating. In his ears his voice echoes – somehow he knows it's his voice, even though he can't ever remember speaking – and in his eyes the memory of gold. He wonders if there was ever a time his body responded, it did not just lag about, that he was more than a simple pile of flesh.

"You left me." are the first words that are not his name that he speaks to a lone guest who visits, someone he _knows _but cannot place. He feels as close to her as he is himself, but he can only put feelings onto the person, no name. Jaime does not know what provokes the bitter phrase, other than the vivid flash of hair storming away, feelings of anger and sadness, and the door slamming shut behind her. There was a smell, too, he remembers, but he's not sure if it was his body, or something else.

"No, never." _That_ voice is familiar. Its chime feels like it should clear the haze, but all it brings is confusion. The stranger calls forth more words and memories, ones he knows intimately but doesn't understand. Feelings, blocked by a fog, faces twisted and morphed together. "Jaime." He likes the way she says his name; it sends a course of warmth through him that he's not felt since he's awakened. He wants her to say it again and again and never stop.

Then he opens his eyes.

There's a candle near the door - _the door she left through, abandoning me to my fate_ – and her features are obscured. She moves closer, her long dress swirling in the shadows like a living creature. Jaime does not know it he wants to reach out or withdraw in horror. She seems smaller than the shade in his mind remembers, more delicate.

"You betrayed me?" He barely even knows the meaning of the words he speaks, the question-that-is-not-a-question. It feels so right to say, as if it's a weight off his chest, confronting something he's desperately been avoiding.

"I don't understand, Jaime." Gods he wants her to say his name again. He wants her to caress it with her tongue, to restore his identity, because he _knows_ he's whole with her and lost without her. But he doesn't know who she is at all. "What happened?"

"I don't know."He remembers red and pain and then darkness. His scream is the only sound that echoes in his ears.

He barely looks up to his visitor as she places her finger under his chin. His head rolls to the side for a moment before he slowly lifts it, as heavy as if it is filled with boulders. His neck feels as weak as the rest of him and it takes all of his strength to just keep his chin from falling back to his chest as she brings her mouth to his in a motion he knows intimately. As warm as they are, her lips do little to revitalize him, even if she now shares the burden of his weight. She presses herself as close as she dares; her breath is the first warmth he remembers since waking, her touch the softest feel he's ever known.

"Cersei." The name sounds wrong to him, but it's the only one he knows. He whispers against her lips and presses as hard as he can, until he feels like his arms are going to tear from their sockets, his muscles burn and rip, until he's so dizzy that he can't tell up from down and left from right. She's addicting, his everything, he does not want the moment to ever end, even if he must push his body to its breaking point._ "_Don't leave me."He gasps out when they both must take a breath. _I'm not whole without you._

"I won't. We leave together, or not at all." Her eyelashes tickle his cheek as she blinks against him.

It's not the answer he's looking for, he muses as the world darkens around him, but he's inclined to believe her.

_**Red.**_

His entire body screams, even if his voice refuses to mimic the sound. Jaime does not know how long he's been unconscious or why, or how he got into that state in the first place. He feels drowsy, as if he drank far too much wine and the puzzles in his mind are only just starting to fit and re-piece themselves together.

"You're awake." He hears a voice – _that_ voice. Jaime lifts his head as best he can he sees her. His mind is still cloudy, but the world is clearer, his memory more defined. The woman in front of him keeps her distance and her features blend together, both familiar and alien, red and gold, past and present, companionship and loneliness.

"Sansa." Her name sounds pleasant on his lips, just as much as his does on hers, and he wants to repeat it again and again. Said woman's lips press into a tight line at the lone word and somehow Jaime feels as if he's disappointed her.

"Please. . .you must hold on. Just a bit longer." The Cersei-who-is-not-Cersei approaches him and his mind reels. Everything should be clear, but he still can't tell past from present. When did anyone last visit? How many times has he been tortured? His older memories seem intact, but everything else is a blur.

"Sansa." He whispers her name again. It's the only reply he knows, it's the only thought that keeps him steady in his hurricane of agony.

"We'll have some time once we escape; you'll be strong again." Sansa leans down before him with another smile, still as distant and tight, but she hides it well. Jaime is unsure how he reads the expression at all, or how he understands it; some part of him thinks he knows Sansa better than he knows himself. Her hands warily touch his legs, as if she expects to cause him pain or him to kick her off. He's too weak to do either, but he does flinch as she gently kneads his muscles. Fire burns through him; they've not atrophied completely, as he's walked out of his cell every day – Jaime's first utterly clear memory comes to mind and he knows one name viler than any other: _Bolton_ – but he'll be little more help than a cripple if he tries to walk more than a few paces. They'll need that time she claims to have. "I need you by my side when we take Winterfell back."

Her hands do not shy away from the muscles in his thighs, they've healed somewhat in the last days, weeks, or months, despite whatever foul substances are caked on them, but she avoids his stomach and chest entirely, for his wounds around those areas are far too deep. If she massaged either, they would tear open and any previous healing would be undone. As her hands make their way up his arms, he can almost feel her massaging his right hand and he innately tries to grasp at it to hold, but to no avail, as there's nothing left to grasp with.

She stops when she reaches his shoulders, but her hands don't move. Their faces are close enough that it's impossible to tell their breaths apart. She moves her lips close until all he sees is red - of her hair, of her mouth, of blood - and he presses his eyes closed and turns his head away. This isn't the place for them, not here. Gods he wants it; he wants to run his hand through her hair, but his arms are chained. He wants to push her against the wall and take her as hard as he can and he doesn't care if the entire world watches as he does so. But not now - not here, not in this state; she deserves a man, not whatever fleshy thing exists who claims the name Jaime Lannister.

Sansa pulls apart gently, Jaime utterly incapable of stopping her, and picks up her tallow candle. She offers him that same tight smile and flat look as she turns away and leaves his cell without another word.

The door closes behind her with a dull clank and Jaime feels he's done something horribly wrong. But, as he moves to realign himself for even a modicum of comfort, he finds the process easier than ever. Sansa's plan becomes immediately apparent as his arms fall free of their shackles above his head and he feels a painful smile, one that cracks at the wounds of his cheeks and mouth until they bleed, form on his lips.


	7. Legacy: AryaJaimeTywin

**Summary:** Mini-fill. The Lannisters have molded her life in countless ways. Arya/Jaime/(Tywin)  
**Prompt: **Older!Arya/Jaime- _And to think, I may have been your Step-mother._

**Legacy**_  
_

* * *

"How did he tame you, I wonder?"

Arya barely blinks at her husband's musing as she strips off her shift and drops it to the floor casually.

_Silence is as deadly of weapon as a blade._

She keeps her expression trained and flat as she walks naked through the room to the table and pours them both goblets of wine. The chill of the night air is pleasant, merely a light distraction that tickles her flesh, even if it causes bumps to form over her body and her nipples to harden. No doubt Jaime will misjudge the reasons for the latter.

_Assumptions and brash accusations are a death warrant; act with assurance and control, not emotions._

"Do I look tame to you?" She smiles lightly as she changes the subject, her words the whisper of a tease. She flips her hair - it's finally grown, but she will never wear it as long as her mother or sister - back over her shoulder in a silent, playful dare to prove otherwise. Jaime once described Arya's confidence as infectious, but she knows better; it's a dance, more subtle than that of the water dancing she once prided herself in, but equally efficient.

_The strongest commands are those unspoken._

"You're not snarling and biting; that seems tame enough." He goads his wife as she makes her way back to the bed, goblets in hand. She'll snarl and bite soon enough, as the marks on his shoulders and arms evidence. She runs a finger - her nails are short and worn, skin rough from years of time outdoors and calloused from using a blade - over one of Jaime's more visible bruises to emphasize her point before she hands him the wine.

_Those who flaunt their strength are the weakest of all._

"Smart wolves know when to hide their teeth." The woman sips from her goblet with a frown. Arya's always preferred the harsher beers of the north to such finer drinks, but she plays along with the charade. Where she once might have cringed at the thought of such conformation, she now accepts its necessity; trust is impossible to breed when you're considered a blemish or aberration. If a mask is what she must wear, then she will become the person they see.

Only a few sips are necessary and Arya places the goblet down on the bedtable before turning her attention to the warm body beside her.

"Another lesson from Father?" She can sense his sneer under the words, his open distaste, but whether it arises from jealousy, disgust, or another emotion, Arya knows not. She's not that adept at reading him - not yet.

_There is value in predictability; your opponents underestimate your ability to shatter expectations._

Jaime's mistakes are juvenile and he falls into her every trap, just as she once did Tywin's. Often she tries to guide and teach him, but he never heeds her lessons. There is continual dissonance between the lovers; even though they are both creatures of action, ones of necessity and harsh realism, Jaime never quite learned the importance of hesitation and control, of words and strategy.

"Perhaps." She rolls on top of him, legs straddling his hips, bored with the game already. Arya tugs lightly at his goblet and takes it from his lazy grasp - he cares little for it, but drinks it for the same reason as she - and places it beside hers on the bedtable. She brings her mouth to her husband's for a gentle kiss before she blows out the lone remaining candle that illuminates the room.

It's easier to pretend that fire is ice when she cannot see the difference.


	8. Suds: JaimeSansa

**Summary:** Sansa has a new hobby. JaimeSansa  
**Prompt:** _Hair kink. All she wants to do is run her fingers through his hair and tug_.

**Suds**

* * *

He really is a clever thing; Sansa is unsure if his determination to bathe alone is an annoyance or pitiful, but he carefully manages his schedule in such a way that he knows he will not be disturbed.

The lady quickly makes her way through the halls of Casterly Rock, feeling almost like a rogue as she sticks to the shadows and hides from the servants and maids who saunter from one room to the next. Thrill runs through her as she attempts to avoid detection - _This must have been how Arya felt back at Winterfell_. The thought brings warmth and emptiness, along with a sense of disdain and her excitement dissipates when she realizes she's most certainly not acting the lady she knows she should be.

In a sudden moment of comprehension, she briefly hesitates. Sansa pauses near a bright, open window to catch her breath and rub the soles of her feet, sore and cold from running the halls of the Rock without shoes. A small smile crosses her features, in spite of her weariness. The young woman realizes, with some surprise, that she is not nearly so horrified by her actions as she might have been a few years earlier. A strange confidence comes from that, one she does not quite expect, but somehow knew about all along. Being a lady is not about following courtly manners without flaw, a lesson her mother once tried to emphasize to her, but she never heeded in her foolish dreams of knights and queens. Sansa only wonders why she did not understand it sooner. The young woman is unable to hold back her bubble of laughter at the realization, especially amusing in that it takes place when she's disheveled, leaning against the wall, chest heaving with her rapid breaths, looking decidedly un-ladylike. She quietly thanks her mother and Arya for the revelation before she continues on her secretive trek down and down and down, clutching a small satchel she bought from the newest shipment of goods from Lannisport to her chest.

Her breath echoes through the halls more loudly than her footsteps as she reaches the lower level and slows her pace. The halls are dimmer in this area, the atmosphere meant to relax its occupants. Sansa knows she's getting close and takes on a normal, more subdued amble until she reaches the lone door at the end of the hall, protected by two Lannister guardsmen, well dressed and cleaned. They carry themselves with a quiet confidence, not the blatant overt confidence of a sellsword only worth half the coin he charges.

"m'Lady." Sansa's quickly tries to recall the guard's name, running off a list of all of those she is familiar with, but to no avail. _Jaime would know_, she scolds herself.

"Stand down." She orders, knowing full well it's within her authority to do so, but still not quite comfortable with exerting it. The guards look at each other, holding back their smirks, but open the door to the baths without another word.

The large, open bath chamber is silent, humid, and empty, the only sound a light lapping of water against the pool. Sansa does her best to pull up her dress to stop it from getting wet, but it's a lost cause and she immediately abandons the idea, carefully watching her steps as not to slip, instead. Jaime chooses to bathe near the entrance, and only when it's devoid of all life but himself. Her walk is a short one. Though he has a private bath in his room, he prefers the quiet peace of the public baths, where the servants will not look upon his stump with pity, curiosity, or distaste. Jaime is remarkably delicate in regards to comments about his hand - not openly, of course, but his lack of hand digs into his pride and any mention of it sends him into a black mood for half of the day.

He watches her with relative disinterest, even minor annoyance that his bath is interrupted. Sansa barely keeps her own look of irritation off her features when she sees Jaime has no intention of rising to greet her and she is forced to kneel down beside him.

"I brought you some new wash." She opens the small satchel she carries with her. It's a new scent, one Jaime would never have bought for his use, but there is only one way to describe it: _home_. Casterly Rock may be her residence, but it is not her home, not yet. The soap smells of Winterfell, of evergreen trees, of snowy days, of the wind in her hair, of the rain. It's not a scent she believes particularly fits him - and it's clear that Jaime agrees, as an unpleasant grimace covers his features - but she knew the moment she smelled it that she needed to buy it.

Sansa holds it in her hand with the hopeful smile she knows _always _works on him, but does not move. The air quickly becomes uncomfortable as they continue to stare, both looking back and forth between the soap and the other's face. They're trying to speak silently, both expecting the other to act, but their messages are unclear, as if they speak in different tongues, their gazes the frantic hand waving and arm motions. This discrepancy is common between them, though it becomes less frequent in recent moons.

"Would you prefer my hair grow white while we wait? At this rate, I'll be crinkled as a corpse before we're finished." Jaime finally sighs. Sansa's eyes widen and she works her mouth, not quite sure how to respond, feeling more than a little foolish before the emotion slips into annoyance. She keeps her expression carefully neutral - _If that is all he wanted, he should have said so in the first place - _before she nods, satisfied. He is willing to use a soap he dislikes for her, she is in no position to complain. The young woman dips her hands into the water carefully, the pleasant smell almost overwhelmingly powerful, before she runs it through the most easily accessible place on his body: his hair.

Sansa has always loved hair; it's a sign of cleanliness, of elegance, of a person properly born and bred, and Jaime's is no exception. His hair, though wet, is thin and easy to manipulate, much unlike her own and very much different from that of her sister's and father's. Jaime sits up straight, knowing full well what she's doing; it's unexpected, for both of them, but certainly not unwelcome. The touches are a strange and silent type of bonding, where both learn something about the other using unconventional methods. Sansa's fingers play at the nape of his neck, much like his often do to hers when they pull each other together for sex, before intertwining her entire hands in the water-soaked gold.

The wash helps Sansa's fingers slide through with ease and soon his entire head is slick and smooth. Her hands make their way through his locks - the strands are more clumps, merged together under both the water and the soap - and the woman is surprised at the unnatural fineness of it all; he has the hair of a young child, soft and silky, one that a comb runs through with ease and her fingers trail down without hindrance. She almost giggles childishly as her hands reach the back of his ears, in the memory of warnings about how important it is to wash there.

It's only by chance that she glances down to look at him. Sansa was so entranced by the wash and caress that she almost forgot Jaime was there; a miraculous feat in itself, to be sure, as Jaime always makes his presence known in some form or the other. He can be very much like a puppy when he chooses, mischievous and silent when it serves his purposes. His eyes are closed and he melts into her; Sansa's touch is not as harsh as a massage, with all of the stiff muscles and grunts of pain or relief that come with it, and he looks peaceful. There is one moment, little more than a prolonged second between them, when there is nothing but warmth, familiarity, and comfort. She often felt this way in the quiet with her mother, but then Arya would always make her presence known and -

Sansa tugs lightly and Jaime's eyes snap open in surprise. The young woman holds back her laughter as best she can with a flat expression, feigning innocence. He eyes her suspiciously, rightfully so, before he trusts himself to her fingers once again. With his head turned, she lets the playful look flicker across her features, very much enjoying the control it gives her. It is so rare to have Jaime vulnerable between her fingers – both in word and in truth - that she cannot help but want more. She tugs again, more cautiously. He does not move or make a sound, but his head jerks very slightly at the motion, small wet bubbles tumbling about onto her sleeves and dress.

It becomes something of a game; she continues her stroking until Jaime is entirely relaxed before she pulls. It's remarkably satisfying at first, but he soon learns it just as well as she, and they mutually tease one another. His relaxation becomes more rapid, as if he dares - nay, wants - her to continue. It's only by chance that she looks down on her companion, to see the reason why: he's running a hand over his cock gently, almost secretively, as if he does not wish her to know he enjoys what she's doing to him.

He's awkward with his left hand, not nearly precise and controlled as he might have been with his right. He knows the speed and strength and locales he likes to be touched - Sansa can barely keep the blush off her features when she realizes that she knows just as intimately as he - but his hand refuses to listen to his demands. Jaime hesitates for a moment when he realizes she notices, but offers her a smile, one that's not quite a dare, but a challenge. No girlish blush covers her face this time, but she returns it with a smile almost as equally playful. The silent communication is clear and both understand the orders immediately: _continue_.

Jaime arches his body and leans his head back and Sansa parts her knees so that it sits between her legs, led by Sansa's light tugs. She looks down at him, a soft smile on her features and she traces one hand over his face, down his shoulders, and over his chest, as the other massages the back of his scalp, her nails digging only very lightly in, enough to apply pressure, but not enough to cause harm. His mouth parts slightly as her hand explores his upper body, enjoying the feel of him almost as much as he the feel of her; she dares not lean forward to help his clumsy attempt at pleasure, lest she fall into the pool alongside him, but she can tell her touch has its desired effect as he makes soft sounds, halfway between a grunt and a sigh. Jaime murmurs something she can't quite hear or understand, but she thinks it's her name before she leans back to the sitting position above him.

The water splashes about the bath and over the ledges as his pace quickens, covering her dress and legs, but neither care. His eyes are open, glazed over by pleasure. She continues smiling down at him, green meeting blue in the rare instances that he's less driven by lust for his completion, and he offers her that rare, quiet expression he shares only with her when they're alone. In these close moments, she's gentler, her fingers softer, like she's washing him, rather than the playful pulling from earlier. The suds are all over her now, the smell of the north from his wash as thoroughly enveloping her legs and arms as it does his hair and she cannot help but bring her lips down to kiss him, flicking her tongue into his open mouth before drawing away in a tease. He comes then, his seed merging itself with the water, their breath shared. Were they both not wet, soapy, and cold, it might have been romantic, instead it simply feels _dirty_ – a dirty she finds she is not entirely averse to.

Sansa removes her hands from his hair with some small sadness and he dips his head into the water, not seeming to care that his semen is spread through it. She supposes there are worse things - dirt, filth, and grime - that the baths hold, a bit of seed does not harm anyone, least of all the man who released it. She kisses her fingers and touches his cheek with them, offering a playful smile, before quickly moving out of his range. Knowing Jaime as she does, he will pull her into the water with him, without care of the repercussions. She flees, no longer caring that her feet or dress are slimy, from the baths. Warmth rises through her, despite the cool water that covers her legs and arms and the way her skirt cling to her body uncomfortably in a most inappropriate manner.

As the lady passes them, she can almost hear the two guards snickering from behind her back at the sight of her soaked form, but, with a new confidence that only arises from experience, she finds she does not mind. She might well be willing to try it again some time.


	9. Woman and Lady: AryaTywin

**Summary: **There are many who misjudge Arya, so rare shows of acceptance mean more than words. AryaTywin**  
Prompt: **_After her sister is wedded to Lord Tywin, Sansa leaves King's Landing to join Arya at Casterly Rock. She immediately starts weeping and hugging Arya, lamenting the younger girl's horrible fate- but Arya doesn't quite see things that way._**  
**

**Woman and Lady**

* * *

His praise is almost as rare as his smiles.

Arya has been praised in the past, when she was particularly efficient, when her words brought forth ideas and inspiration, yet not even she has seen her lord husband's lips quirk. Even when she knows he is most content, the man is solemn and often silent. His burdens weigh heavily on him; when Tywin Lannister is alone with her, he allows his shoulders to slump slightly as his gaze to drop but a fraction, the only signs of weakness Arya knows she will ever witness. He reminds her much of her father, in that way: a man who pushes himself to the point where he forgets who is lord and who is man.

The thought of her fallen sire does not bring the pang of despair it once might have, but the rage remains. A deep pit of emotion resides within her that she's learned to tame, to use to her advantage, but disallows from overwhelming her sense. It is anger that brought her this far and control that will keep her alive.

Despite her husband's - Arya thinks it almost silly that she can think of him as such, for they do not act like husband and wife - sternness, he is not immovable. He does not have expressions for satisfaction or pleasure, as a normal man might, but his glances indicate as much, as do implications in his tone. All are brought upon by shows of competence or rare bouts of good news, as no witticism or jest amuses him. Arya can hardly blame him; most of the japes spoken within hearing range are so offensive - oftentimes about her - or troublesome in nature that she does not find them funny, either. Equally likely is that his influence simply makes her a dour creature.

He is a harsh man, to be certain, but also like her father and mother, there is a softness that he only shows to her. It took her many moons to even recognize its presence at all, but Arya appreciates his subtle communication, not forceful or demanding - she might even call it cautious, hesitant, and shy. She sees it now, as they sit over a small desk in his office in Casterly Rock well into the depths of the night. The golden glow of the candles illuminates their outlines so that they are tinged with a warm, rich brown as they fade in and out of the other's vision.

He touches her hand.

In itself it is a simple motion, even accidental, for the side of his thumb brushes against her wrist. Neither flinches at the contact, but if anyone else had done it the man might well have cut their hand off. The mismatched duo continues their discussion unhindered, as if the graze never happened at all. Tywin speaks very specifically about how she is to control funds, guardsmen, trade, of the orders she is to give under particular circumstances and it is in these times she feels she is most at peace. It is not that she enjoys such politics - quite the contrary, it bores her to the point of tears - but, rather, it is Tywin's simple, open respect for her that is most unexpected and welcome. Their relationship is more professional than intimate, but there's a touch impossible to describe that makes them more than simple associates.

It is not reliance; neither needs or wants a companion.  
It is not necessity; neither Arya nor Tywin need the other, though Arya knows both will hesitantly admit the other is useful for furthering their goals.  
It is not friendship; Arya's lost more than enough friends to fear making more. The only person she relies on is herself. Tywin wants no friends.

It borders on tutelage; there are no official lessons, yet Arya clings to his every word as an experience in its own right. She watches as he orders his knights around, and mimics him almost instinctively, as if her survival depends on it. He manages his resources effectively, and Arya, too, learns the necessities of caring for a castle. She curses herself for the subtle change, but by watching her lord husband she knows she, too, can play the same games he does. But while she is disgusted with herself, the thought always makes her smile; Needle may have been taken from her, but Arya now has ways to deal with her enemies without resorting to physical means or childish rants declaring eternal hatred and wishes of death.It is amusing, in some sick way, for in that manner she has become more of a lady. No longer does the young woman rely entirely on force to solve her problems, as she once did - only partly a truth, as Arya knows if she is given the opportunity she will murder those men who remain on her nightly list, but a truth nonetheless. She hides the satisfied smile the arises from her thoughts, knowing that if she wears it Tywin will be angry, thinking her mind is wandering. The young woman has heard his demands at least thrice and Arya is not daft; she knows what is expected of her.Sometimes men simply enjoy hearing themselves speak, even if much of her lord's discussion occurs without words.

There is a knock at the door, tentative and fearful. _Wise_ - Arya thinks, for Tywin's reputation is such that he terrifies by name alone. His presence is even more overwhelming. Tywin is not like Joffrey; he does not need irrational violence or threats to demand adherence. She wonders if someday she will command such respect and, if she does, she wishes it to be by her own merit, not because she is simply the wife of a powerful man. Arya refuses to turn into Cersei Lannister. The vile name sends a spike of anger through her as it echoes in her mind. She repeats it: _Cersei, Cersei, Cersei, _long since refusing to acknowledge her title of queen. It's the same as Arya does every night, calming, a mantra that keeps her whole. By the time her rage falls away, Tywin has already called in his visitor.

Though she feigns boredom, Arya listens. She keeps her eyes down on the map, sometimes roaming over Tywin's hands placed atop it, his presence still close and strangely comforting. For all the show of letting herself fall into the shadows, her ears are as open as her eyes, listening intently. Tywin does not dismiss her and she _knows_ he does not underestimate her; the lord recognizes Arya's plans as clearly as she - and he approves. The very scene embodies their relationship and Arya would have it no other way.

"My Lord, as per your command -" Arya's eyes flick up curiously, seeing two forms, both road-weary and travel-stained, before they flick back down, continuing her game. Her breath catches and her eyes widen and she lifts her eyes back up, careful not to expressly stare. _Impossible._

Tywin cuts the man off without a word by standing from his place and walking through the office, creating a prolonged, uncomfortable, thick silence. Arya's gaze follows him and it takes all of her self-control to not glance at his - _their_ - guests.

"I am away to bed." Is all he says, his words straightforward, but holding veiled meaning. It's a dismissal, a silent approval; if Lord Tywin does not criticize, the job is done effectively. The simple sentence also tells her what she already knows: he is leaving for King's Landing early in the morn, to resume his duties as Hand, and he expects Arya to act explicitly as he's instructed, leaving the Rock in her capable hands. She is partially annoyed at the silent orders, but also feels waves of satisfaction in that he believes her an able leader. Very few would give her that same respect.

He continues, to Arya this time, his presence making the unknown man scurry away like a rat underfoot - "Entertain Lady Stark until the servants have prepared her quarters."

There are more orders there - ones darker, even threatening. That pit of revulsion returns, but Arya knows better than to speak her thoughts, for both her safety and the guest's. She nods, no smile or frown crossing her features; the trained impassive flatness that she learned from Tywin is all she lets show. She brings her arms below the desk and clenches her hands into painfully tight, annoyed fists, still unable to look at the second guest - nay, not a guest, a prisoner. Tywin's message is as clear as day: her sister's safety is in her hands, if Arya bumbles or even thinks about betraying him, lashing out with the small power he allows her, the girl will suffer the consequences.

She silently curses his exiting form; just when she thinks she might find him more than tolerable or companionable, he gives her reason to loathe him anew. But the rage does not last, slipping away as soon as the door closes behind and his form disappears alongside that of Sansa's escort. Arya does not blame him for his actions; her lord is a man who understands possibility and acts simply in prevention. Arya would have done the same in his place. It says yet more of him that he allows her to lead, _alone_, despite the possibilities; Tywin does not expect betrayal, but prepares for it. Arya knows that she is one of very few he would give such trust to.

Finally alone, Arya lets her gaze fall onto her sibling. The older looks mortified at what she's seen, the barest hints of the strange relationship that exists between husband and wife, letting her lady's mask fall away slightly once two are secure. They stare at each other, illuminated only by the candle in the center of the room and the lantern near the door. Arya stands, unable to relax, and even more unsure what to say, her body tense, feeling the necessity to do _something _- anything.

She is _family_. The thought sends such a powerful gust of warmth through the young woman that she fears she will blush in happiness, like a younger Sansa might have. This is a moment she's dreamed of, despite the layers of poison beneath the reunion. She once played this image over and over in her mind, the variations of the situation keeping her stable on her most agonizing nights. Would they hug? Would Arya act the lady, just for a moment, to please Sansa and show her that she's grown? Would they yell or laugh? All of her plans fall away as she moves with a distant numbness.

As Arya approaches her sister - her guest, her charge, her prisoner - they examine each other. Sansa is not quite unrecognizable, but just as Arya's has, her face has changed, and not just from age. There is steel there, now, not quite as sharp as Arya's own or nearly as dangerous; Sansa's is a shield meant to protect and guard, where Arya's is a dagger. Her blue eyes are not quite as bright, her manner not so open and trusting. Not the stupid girl any longer, it seems. _What do you see in me? Do I look as much like Father as you do Mother? _

The duo stands apart, less than a pace between them, Arya holding in her rapid breaths as best she can. Sansa is shaking; it's subtle, but Arya can see it. She recognizes such body language easily, as it's all that has kept her alive for so long. They stare at the other for a prolonged moment, before Sansa closes the distance, clutching onto Arya fiercely, as tightly as she can. Though Sansa is both the older and the taller, it is she who cries, who buries her face into Arya's simple, unadorned top. The younger carefully wraps her arms around the elder and presses her eyes closed; Jon used to hold her like this, to reassure her. Arya wishes with all her heart that she can cry along with her, even of happiness, but no tears are willing to fall.

"Arya!" The elder finally sobs into her chest, her voice breaking at the word. There's as much happiness in her intonation as there is sadness.

"Sansa." It feels strange. She avoids calling the other 'sister;' they've both changed too much for the title to be relevant, even with bonds of blood.

For the first time in their lives, the two speak as equals, though their position and rank could not be more different. Arya has never been one to care for such formalities; even as men start calling her "my lady" she continues to wield her blade - it's not Needle, but slightly larger, heavier and just as fine, crafted and balanced specifically for her - and practices languages and strategy on her own time. She enjoys working with numbers more than songs and will write the most dull and boring of reports she usually sends to her assistants before she even considers knitting.

Arya does not know how long passes before Sansa calms, but her sobbing eventually abates and her breaths return to normal. The younger guides her elder over to the desk she and Tywin sat at earlier and removes the parchment and maps, rolling them carefully and placing them in their appropriate chests. She pulls a chair for her sister, in order to give her some comfort after the long trek**-** it's more out of respect for Sansa than because she feels the need to act mannerly. Arya has no wine or water to offer to her guest, but she doubts the other would take it anyway.

With Sansa effectively sated, Arya rushes over to the door and firmly gives the order for a room to be prepared. The warmth of satisfaction flows through her when they listen without question, despite all size and age differences.

"Are you well. . .sister?" The elder questions. Sansa does not share Arya's reluctance in use of the familial title.

"As well as I can be." She murmurs as she closes the door behind her and moves back through the room, her body calming, the desire for action slowly falling away. She is not elegant, nor does she try to be; her footsteps are silent and her movements discreet, more out of habit than purpose. Her answer is intentionally vague; after what Arya has seen, felt, smelled, tasted, lived through, it continually amazes her that she is both alive and sane at all – "well" is an understatement of her condition.

Sansa can read into the phrase what she may, as she will likely find the assumptions more pleasant than the reality. It is only belatedly that she recognizes her subtlety as Tywin's influence; where Arya once might have been blunt and even viciously overbearing, no longer does she have any interest in making her sister uncomfortable.

"Why? Why would they marry you? To _him_?" Arya is shocked at Sansa's vehement reaction, her tone unlike anything she's heard from her. The elder shudders, the younger frowns. The idea seems abhorrent to Sansa, much like Joffrey's marriage once was to Arya. In spite of the overt hostility in the air between them, Arya finds herself pleased at her sister's openness and how she is more willing to speak her thoughts. Sansa is not so meek and placid any longer; with distance and trials, the two have drawn closer than ever.

The young woman wonders how to explain her husband is not so foul; he is loyal and devoted. Lord Tywin cares for his lands and his people, wanting nothing more than for his family's prosperity. Not all Lannisters share his passion, she admits, and she would never call him honorable, but he is a man she respects.

"It's not so terrible." She keeps her words ambiguous, trying to find a way make her sister understand. They do not marry for love, but neither do they marry for power or influence. Arya's claim to Winterfell is weak and Tywin gains little from it. She searches for words, but the explanations only sound absurd, much like how Sansa's former fascination with being a proper lady, with queens and knights and tourneys, once baffled Arya. The younger woman can hardly believe the existence of the bond she shares with the older man herself, but quietly accepts it as part of her.

In a small bout of irrationality driven by a strange, unfamiliar protectiveness, Arya continues: "He's not nearly as much of a beast as Joffrey." It's a subtle attack and Arya is ashamed of it the moment she sees Sansa's cringe. _Joffrey _- she hates him most of all. Her dreams of the King are so spiteful that when she wakes after her dagger tastes his blood, her sex warms in pleasure. As Hand, her lord husband is the only person who keeps the monster under control. Arya places her hand atop her sister's on the desk and continues, apologetically, the contact speaking more than her awkward words ever can. She tries to make Sansa understand, that there is trust and a bond, not just responsibility and pain. "I am castellan of Casterly Rock now."

Arya prefer titles like that - castellan. It certainly sounds better to her ears than something foolish like "Lady of Casterly Rock." Arya may be a woman, but she will never be a lady. The more formal title is inaccurate as well, for she lacks any political control over the Rock. Tywin retains overall command of the Lannister troops and political relationships, where Arya's purpose is simple management. She makes certain that resources are properly handled and that the populace is satisfied. Her skill with numbers gives her ability in mercantile negotiation few have. Arya appreciates, more than all else, that even if she sits behind a desk all day and deals with retainers, she can use the abilities she favors, not pretending to be something she's not. She does not hold her tongue, for its strength and ferocity demands more respect than any of the quiet, submissive women who stand in their husbands' shadows will ever receive.

"A cage as gilded and fine as the Red Keep, to be certain, but a cage nonetheless." There is sadness in her words, but also stubbornness. Arya knows she should not be surprised; Sansa recognizes her new predicament as clearly as her younger sibling. Sansa is as much a prisoner in the Rock as in King's Landing. Arya is not Cersei - and she thanks the Gods for that - but it sends pangs of pain through her; she knows she must keep her sister here. Conflict arises within, a strange mixture of acknowledging her duty - to both Sansa and her husband - and her innate desire to rebel, to do what she believes to be right. Arya knows there must be something she can do to help her sister - it's well within her power. But not yet, not when it is so obvious that she is at fault for any disappearing Stark. More difficult will be the explanation that Arya has no desire to leave.

A smile passes over her features as she meets her sister's eyes. "I've always been good at escaping." She silently demands her sister's patience and lets her know that, within Arya Lannister, Arya Underfoot still exists, molded by her time as a mouse, as Weasel, and even as Arry.

And Sansa understands. The tears threaten to spill out anew, but Sansa pushes them back with that new strength of hers. There is still much to be said, decisions to discuss, pains to overcome, but they've taken the first step in becoming the sisters they never were.


	10. Foresight: AryaGendry, Tywin

**Summary:** Mini-fill. Arya learns a lesson about discretion. Implied AryaGendry, Tywin.  
**Prompt:** Tywin, Arya/Gendry - Tywin hears that his cupbearer has spending a great deal of time (including some nights) in the forge with the young armorer. He decides to speak to her about appropriate behavior for a lady (because, after all, she's his cupbearer and he doesn't want any embarrassment.)

**Foresight**

* * *

The girl is bold, even when Tywin Lannister can tell she tries not to be. Some men are such by nature, as any proper Lannister is a lion, and he can clearly see a similar ferocity within her. His cupbearer feigns a slump and attempts to hide in the shadows, away from the candlelight and his piercing stare.

"Nan." His tone holds no threats, but tolerates no hesitation. The single word serves its purpose and the girl draws closer, her chin stuck to her chest and eyes downcast.

"My lord." She speaks softly, properly, with a hint of grace belittled by her boyish appearance. Her manner of speech and demeanor mark her as high born, even when she clearly tries to hide it. Both words and body language are easily feigned and can be learned and practiced with time, so Tywin knows not to trust such appearances. Less common is the child's keen intelligence and curiosity. Tywin sees the way she looks over his maps when she thinks he is not looking. Once he even left a letter - a pointless one, only an inconsequential report - out in the open to test her. She read that, as well.

For a brief moment he considers soft words, but discards the idea immediately. Child or adult, he treats those he calls to his presence one and the same. "You're spending inordinate periods of time with the smith's apprentice."

By all rights, what the child does should not matter. If she was in the service of any other man, Tywin knows any reports of such actions would be both ignored and discarded. But Tywin Lannister is not a simple lordling or knight; he will not suffer disgrace from any of his inferiors.

The girl does not cow easily under his tone, one that he knows causes weaker men to shit themselves. It's an impressive strength to find in a child, but he's not sure if the cupbearer's obstinance arises from her ignorance or her fire. Nan meets his eyes for a brief second and he knows it's the latter; the child knows exactly what she does and shows no remorse for it. In attempt to appear meek, she glances away, head down, posture slumping, her weight shifting back and forth, biting the bottom of her lip, looking all the nervous little creature she knows he expects from a cupbearer. She replies weakly: "He's my friend."

Tywin senses an edge of protectiveness in the girl's intonation, one he knows well. She'll protect the boy with lies, if need be, and fears not for her own safety. "I was unaware that 'friends' require you to spend nights away from your bed." There's blatant challenge in the lord's words, demanding more than an answer or explanation, but for her to understand the summoning. The child is still young; she acts irrationality, thinking little of consequences. Tywin plans to change that.

"They do not, my lord." She masks her emotions again, words perfectly courteous and respectful, a response Tywin expects. Nan is closing herself to him, stubbornly creating a wall, laboring as rapidly as she can for any excuse. Her mind will be working even more quickly if he's forced to bring a whip to her, but the lord would rather not act with such force without necessity. Words serve their purpose just as well.

"I know you're a clever thing, Nan." Tywin tries a different approach, neither soft nor kind, but openly confrontational. "Do you think your actions through?" He presses the child, acting the embodiment of rigidity. Nan raises her eyes to his for an instant and a flare of annoyance passes over her face and tenses her body. She clasps her hands into tiny fists and breathes heavily for almost ten seconds, before she releases them, calming herself.

It pleases him that the girl shows such control, but while her parents may teach her strength, their lessons desperately lack in sense. If the girl grows with child from her trysts, Tywin will be down one more competent member of his Harrenhal staff, something he is already in desperately short supply of. He is unsure of her age, as her hair is cut short and her clothes worn loose so that any curves she might have are hidden, but by her height she will be a woman soon, if she is not already. Some girls bloom younger than others.

Tywin knows her type well enough; telling her "no" will simply make her see the boy more. He must make her understand. It all seems rather foolish, too much work for a simple, easily replaceable child. For a brief moment he considers dismissing her, stopped only by the knowledge that any replacement will not show such efficiency or wit, or even half the competence.

"Sit." He motions to the chair closest to her. Nan visibly swallows, fearful of what he plans. _Perhaps there is some wisdom in her, after all._ As the girl climbs into the tall chair, Tywin points to his map, barely readable in the candlelight, with its small tokens atop, each representing the location of the major forces and cities within the realm. He points to Harrenhal, looking up to the girl and making sure she understands. She offers him a curious look in return, but nods with caution, acknowledging her readiness.

"If I moved my forces as such, what would result?" Tywin looks down and moves his token straight across the Riverlands, directly into the army of Robb Stark, without heed of surrounding armies or geography. Nan watches his hands and the clench in her fists returns.

The child is silent for a long moment, but Tywin is well aware that her hesitance is not from lack of knowledge. Nan fears what he might say at her response. She should know better by now, the foolish girl. He is not blind. Tywin keeps his gaze on Nan; he can feel her bend under him as she swallows and loosens her hands, hesitantly, and finally points at Riverrun.

"The Tullys. . ." She does not move the token, but her fingers. Nan draws a trail behind Tywin's hypothetical force, demonstrating what would be an easily avoidable pincer attack. She's a clever thing, indeed, proving his earlier words true. Tywin nods.

"Think not only of your actions, but the secondary effects, both to yourself and others. Your decisions are not reflected only onto you." Tywin moves his token back to Harrenhal without looking at the child, knowing full well she will think on his words and the subtle threat behind them. "Now go."

The girl climbs down from the chair without another word and Tywin knows he will not hear of her forays again.


	11. Of Women and Dreams: CerseiSansa

**Summary:** Mini-fill. She is Cersei's, now and forever. CerseiSansa.  
**Prompt: **_Cersei teaches Sansa how to pleasure herself._

_**Of Women and Dreams**_

* * *

The room is silent, save for the breaths of its two occupants. The early morning sunlight shines through the curtains almost painfully and Sansa turns to the side to shield herself from its glare. From her position beside the bed, Cersei takes hold of the girl's chin and makes her look straight into the green of her eyes.

"Today, our lesson is of a different type."

The queen speaks truly, for it is unlike any lesson Sansa previously encountered - save Joffrey's, to which she refuses to even acknowledge any similarity. As soon as they had entered Sansa's chamber, Cersei dismissed all of her bedmaids and stripped off Sansa's clothes. All that covers her now is a thin, pale sheet drawn up from the bed she rests upon and the queen even pushes that away.

"Your Grace?"

Cersei's only answer is a tight smile as she runs her fingers over Sansa's nude body. Her nails draw their way across her hands, up and down her arms, and over her stomach. The young woman tries to cover herself with her arms, but Cersei waves them away gently as she continues over the rise of her breasts, her collarbone, her neck and cheeks, until Sansa shudders so powerfully that the Queen is forced to remove her hand in surprise.

Rather than disapproval, the motion earns her a smile. The shivers continue as the queen's feathery touches make their way back down again, over her stomach and thighs, until she feels warmth build in her lower region, a fluttery feeling she recognizes as similar to what she felt when Ser Loras gave her a rose. Her heart beats faster and she can feel her face flush.

When the Queen's fingers reach the back of her legs, she stops in hesitation and Sansa immediately recognizes why: large, brown bruises and scabs mar her otherwise pale flesh, the remains of the King's punishment. A fearful look passes over the younger woman's features, hidden away as quickly as the look of darkness Sansa swears she sees pass over the queen's face. They stare at each other for a long moment, masks impassive, before Cersei breaks the silence.

"You may not love your husband, but you will love your children - and yourself."

Panic rises within the Stark girl, driven further by Cersei's tight grasp on her hand as she leads it down and down and down, letting both of their fingers draw patterns in unison across her flesh. It is not long before the shivers return, the dark thoughts and memories fall away, and her caution recedes.

"There are two great pleasures in this world, dear Sansa, as you will soon learn."

The queen guides Sansa's fingers lower and Sansa presses her legs tightly together in shame that someone outside of her family and the Septas sees her sex.

"The first is yourself. Only a part of you can know _you_intimately."

Cersei parts her thighs with a hand. The look she gives Sansa is so strong and commanding that the younger dares not press them back together. The elder woman rubs her fingers slowly around the upper region of the Stark girl's sex, in large, controlled circles, then moving down the side walls and over the top of the raised area before she takes Sansa's hand and caresses her fingers around identically, so that the younger continues where the elder leaves off.

The earlier tremors turn into light contractions in her abdomen and a persistent tingle at the stroking, which becomes easier over time as her body's natural lubrication begins. Sansa gasps lightly in shock at the overwhelming mix of sensations and unintentionally falls back onto the bed. She spreads her legs slightly, to allow her fingers easier access, and sees Cersei looking over her, a satisfied smile on her features.

"The second is your child, its mouth suckling at your breast."

Rather than bring her mouth to Sansa, the queen uses her fingers to draw circles around the pink areola; the tremors begin anew. Paired with her touches, Sansa finds it impossible to get comfortable, working her hips gently around and into the bed as Cersei pinches her nipples, rolling them between her fingers.

Sansa's heart beats faster than she ever remembers as she leans her head back. The queen stops her delicate massage and places her hand on the younger girl's cheek. She runs her finger over the Stark's brow and lightly presses her eyelids down, closing her eyes, willing - _commanding_- her to relax yet further.

"Do not think of men. Fantasize about opportunity and the future, as they will serve you far greater than any husband."

Sansa barely understands what the queen means at all; she can think of little beyond the pleasure in her body. Despite her confusion, she does as Cersei says; her mind creates elaborate images of beautiful children and a happy family. A smile passes over her features, and she licks her lips. Satisfaction wells within alongside the pleasure, just as powerful and overwhelming. It is the most wonderful feeling she's ever known.

"When you are more experienced, you may wish to dip your fingers in."

Sansa barely hears the queen's words in her illusion, but makes a startled squeak when she feels the woman's fingers enter her - not deep, but enough to cause her hips to react and for Sansa to gasp in shock, the tingle rising to the point where her smile falls away and her mouth opens.

"But that game is far too dangerous - for now. You will understand how it's played when you are Queen."

Sansa arches her back and gasps out, soft, unintelligible sounds of pleasure coming from her as she finishes, feeling scared, humiliated, pleased, and complete all at once. The queen's smile returns as she wipes her fingers on a cloth near the bed and kisses Sansa's cheek with a strange affection.

"I'm pleased you understand."


	12. Concessions: AryaTywin

**Summary:** She is not Joanna and he would have it no other way. AryaTywin.  
Prompt: _He should have known marriage wouldn't suddenly transform her into a Lady. Secretly, however, he likes her unladylike behavior._

_**Concessions**  
_

* * *

She can be a lady when she wishes to be, the Warden of the West muses as he unrolls a fresh parchment.

The most prominent example that always comes to mind when Tywin considers his lady wife's manners is their was beautiful then, in a dress finer than any queen's, with a soft elegance in her steps that only experience brings. Even dressed as a bride,his new wife was a fierce thing, though she controlled it well and only someone who knew her as he did would have heeded any of the subtle changes in her body language. There had been some sadness, brought on by her sister's almost apathetic distance – even Tywin had been surprised at how coolly they treated one another. More prominent, the Hand observed how Arya's eyes narrowed when they met Cersei's or glanced over the King. Tywin taught his young wife well enough to know she would not act on such baser animosity; instead she simply met their feigned smiles with one of her own and uttered half-respectful words, each holding a well-placed dagger underneath. There was no laughter, never laughter.

At some of the King's ruder japes, he half expected Arya to use the blade he knew was hidden in her bodice to tear his throat out – but she knew better. Fiery though Arya may be, she is far from daft; Tywin suffers no fools. On that long night, he had held his new wife's hand beneath the table using his presence to calm her well-constrained tremors of rage. Just as he allows himself some relaxation when alone with her, she trusts him with her rare moments of weakness - ones she hides from everyone is a stubbornly prideful thing, with her Stark blood - though she no longer shares the name - and refuses to allow emotion to publicly overwhelm her sense. It is more than most any other woman can say, including his daughter. Arya would sooner brood in silence than have others know her distress. If only half of the knights in Westeros shared his wife's strength.

Arya's concessions only go so far, as do his own, when it comes to public displays. Tywin refused to let the traditional bedding ensue; neither he nor Arya would have tolerated it. Some young brides might have been flattered at the attentions of so many well-bred young men, but Arya would sooner cut the hand from any drunken groper and he saw no reason to stop her. Instead, Tywin had taken her, alone, up the long, long stairwell at the top of the tower of the Hand where he keeps his private chambers. She had fumed the entire way up, mood still sour from the feast, and mumbled words about "mockery;" his new bride did not quite stomp, but it was close as she dared get.

When he undressed her – Arya was surprisingly bold, seemingly caring little that he saw her body in comparison to Joanna's more shy and nervous bedding - she had taken his hands and refused to let him touch her meticulously styled hair. His wife had given him a playful smile, one that he also recognized as dangerous, and instead loosed her short locks unaided. As she did so, Arya had spoken offhandedly, like she might have if she requested tea: "The pins are poisoned."

The memory fills Tywin with fond exasperation, unfamiliar and even stiff; he barely remembers the last time he felt it.

Tywin often requests Arya's thoughts on political and strategic matters and she shows no hesitation in telling him exactly who she believes is a fool or who is a threat - she's quite keen about the latter. On other days, the young woman lurks in the dark corners of his office as he works and listens intently to reports and discussions; she hides her presence almost as well as the eunuch when she has will to. But most of all, Arya enjoys learning. History is a new passion of hers and she often requests books from the library – an interest only amplified by Kevan, who continually recommends specific titles. She does not read fanciful stories of knights and maids and songs, but instead she enjoys tactics, wars and impacting decisions, both good and bad.

A few days after their marriage, Tywin heard his brother's query. Kevan had respectfully inquired on what she was reading and if she enjoyed tales of knights and their journeys, like her sister. An acceptable question, given her age, but Arya would have none of it. The lady's reply was almost insulted, but for Tywin's sake, she kept the displeasure from her voice. "They are tales falsified and exaggerated through retelling." She had declared in that willful tone of hers. "It's an insult to those men who lived in the ages; I prefer historical accuracy."

The Hand feels rare pride at the symbolic growth it represents, coming from the woman who once used the pseudonym Nymeria.

Arya is not the woman most expect a man like Tywin Lannister to marry; even his brother said as much. The commons know so little of him and he prefers to keep it that way; let them sing their songs and speak their jests, they slide over him as oil might water. What is most important, however, is that it gives his wife freedom and safety. He thought it peculiar at first, even horrifying, and finally disgraceful, when he learned that she sometimes binds her breasts and wears the clothes of a man. She lowers herself as she speaks with the stableboys, the guards, the knights, listening to gossip in the kitchens and even sneaking throughout the Keep in that subtle way of hers.

He had every intention of forbidding such behavior, until one night she returned to him, satisfied expression on her features, and provided him with more useful information than any of his whisperers had in the last moon – with none of the associated hidden costs. His wife tells him she knows of passages and meeting places; she was at the Red Keep when Eddard was Hand, Arya elaborated, and she learned to watch and listen, once even she had even eavesdropped on a discussion between Varys and his "little bird." What finally broke him to her will was the assurance that there would be no dishonor on their name or marriage; when she listens, none recognize her, and any suspicions are targeted elsewhere: on a lanky, clumsy, baseborn boy. It is a rare moment when Tywin Lannister relents, but he did then; she is an asset, though he constantly warns her not to take undue risks. If Arya is ever recognized, he warns her, the person must die. His wife agrees, though she stubbornly proclaims she will end their lives with her own hand.

When she walks about as a woman, as his wife, Arya is friendly and open, with offers gifts of food and coin using foreknowledge from her more questionable forays. Her "acts of goodwill" earn the favor of the commons and lesser nobility – much like how Joanna once tempered any animosity in his subjects in the west. While Tywin does not bother with such futilities, he sees no harm in his wife's growing influence.

The Hand's chambers are large and dark so late into the evening, but his work is never done. Tywin sits before his large parchment-covered desk, quill in hand, his script stopped temporarily by musings of his wife after a painfully long day of false pretenses in the council chamber.

While he might have preferred silence in these moments of fatigue mere moons ago, he instead listens to his wife's breaths, heavy from prolonged exertion, as she dances on her toes with a small blade she commissioned – "For defense when I'm alone." she argued, and he could hardly disagree with that. Her steps are barely audible in her water dancing, and even though she trains in his chambers, it is not disrupting; instead, he finds he enjoys Arya's practice. Her heavy breaths almost hypnotize him and give him brief flashes of respite from his responsibilities; the way her body moves, tight clothes amplifying her curves, is appealing, but not overly so, and they are not intentionally worn to enhance her appearance. She speaks under her breath with each motion, words too faint to make out, but decidedly present. His wife murmurs the chant every night, before she drifts off to sleep; all of the words are muted and barely understandable - other than one:

_Joffrey._

When Tywin first defined the word from her whispers, only a few nights past as he rested beside her, he mused long and hard on what was meant by it. He had suspicionsof course, such that her older sister told Arya about how Joffrey mistreated her and acted the an immature child in the process. The Hand does not blame her for such a grudge; the Stark name has been dragged through filth and Tywin knows it falls to Arya to redeem it – just as Tywin once redeemed the Lannister name from his father's follies. Her elder sister does not hold the resolve and cunning within her to do such, so any affronts must be dealt with by the younger woman.

"Lady wife." His voice breaks the silence between them and she stops her practice, startled. Said woman takes a few breaths, sheathes wraps her blade in its cloths, and walks over to his desk at the summons. "You speak the name of your king."

Shock passes over Arya's features for a brief second before she composes herself with a flat mask, but worry still remains within. Her posture is stiff and tense when just a moment before it was liquid from her graceful dance; her eyes hold darkness in them as they meet his. She is unafraid, but he holds her gaze persistently and knows that she will break first.

Submit she does; her head briefly turns to the side in annoyance, rather than down in shame. The young woman clenches her jaw, but quickly looks back to him and leans in over the desk, so that she speaks quietly. Tywin moves in to meet her. Arya's whispers hold challenge that only she dares use on him, but with her intonation he expects honesty.

"He will bring ruin to the Kingdom." Identically to his just a moment before, his wife's eyes dare him to defy her, drawing on the very rigidity he uses. Were she another person, man or woman, he might have had her head mounted on a spike for such insolence, but just as with Kevan he shows rare tolerance with his lady. The Lord respects her opinions on such matters, even when they clash with his own – which they do not, in regards to the child-king.

"He's still young." He speaks the same words he did when Tyrion confronted him on the subject. Joff would learn, just as Arya learned and Tyrion learned. "You control your fire; I will make certain he does as well." The Hand reassures her with certainty. Joffrey must be taught how to be a proper king and, if he refuses to acknowledge his lessons, Tywin will take the necessary steps to secure the future of his house and the Iron Throne. The conversation is over with his short declaration and Arya knows better than to press a subject that Tywin is in the midst of dealing with.

He will get no more work done this night, mood soured by the thoughts of the barbaric child. The Lord of Casterly Rock pushes himself up from his desk and offers his wife his hand. For a brief second she looks at it with an instinctive weariness, before she takes it, an uncharacteristically shy smile on her features as he leads her to their bed.


	13. Secrets: CerseiJaimeSansa, Joffrey

**Summary:** Mini-Fill. Cersei's plans take a turn for the worse as Joffrey prematurely learns of them. CerseiJaimeSansa, Joffrey.  
**Prompt:** _AU: Joffrey's brutality becomes more and more obvious as his wedding day to Sansa grows nearer. Cersei feels guilty sending Sansa to his bed a virgin, so she makes a plan to have her deflowered before her wedding night, telling Sansa that she can choose any man she wants, and Cersei will make it happen. Unfortunately, things don't quite go as Cersei plans._

Sansa and Joffrey are a bit older. I've gone for about 16 so that Joffrey will rule without a Regent.  
Author's Note: Be aware of non-con, Joffrey, and Dark themes in general.

**Secrets**

* * *

_How many oaths will you forsake this day, Uncle?_

"On the table." Joffrey declares; a king's declaration is a command. His uncle hesitates for little more than a second, but long enough for the King to notice. "You swore to obey your king. I said: _On the table._"

". . ." There is a prolonged, pregnant silence as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stares at his twin. Uncle Jaime's defiance stirs irrational anger within the king, but he forces it down; it has no place in his moment of glory. Joffrey does not need to look at his mother to know the emotion she holds in her eyes and the expression that graces her features her as the twins share a look. It's as if they fall right into his hands. As if by silent command, the naked Lord Commander pushes himself onto the large, shield-shaped, utterly white table in the first floor of the White Sword Tower into a position above the equally naked form of the king's betrothed.

"You will get your wish after all, Mother." The King keeps his voice warm and pleasant, as if he gives his mother a gift she's always wished for. He might well have; it is well within his power to separate Mother and his dear uncle if he desires and both know it.

_How many lives will you ruin to stay together?_

"Joff, enough of this charade." Mother hisses from his right. Her nails claw at his shoulder like a rabid cat in futile attempt to stop him. Joffrey throws her hand off apathetically with a toss of his shoulder.

"Be silent!" He is of half of mind to hit her, as his 'father' used to. If there was but one thing former-king excelled at, it was putting his wife in her place. It is only at the last moment that Joffrey restrains himself; mindless violence does not always lead to the desired effects. "This is your fault, Mother. Had you simply kept to yourself, none of this would have occurred." He says instead.

Again, the shared look between siblings, so blatant that even the blind Sansa notices it. In her confusion, the young woman gifts the King with a gaze so terrified that her eyes water, but no tears fall. She's gotten stronger in these last years at court and her beauty is only amplified by the red that covers her cheeks and the light puffiness around her eyes. She will soon be a queen worthy of him. Joffrey ignores his mother's fury and walks over to the table to sit beside his betrothed, who still remains under Uncle Jaime. The King holds his hand out and gently grasps hers; her palms are sweaty from nervousness, but as soft as he remembers.

"Begin." The King commands his Lord Commander. He can see the clench in the older male's jaw and the deep, calming breath that is required to stop him from lashing out in a bout of rash, unrestrained violence. With one final look to Mother - Joffrey knows Uncle Jaime receives a nod in return, as is Mother's way – the knight rubs his cock with a hand and looks over the girl's body, so that he is hard enough to properly penetrate her.

Sansa looks beyond Joffrey to Mother, who does not move to stop the lesson. His mother may be a selfish cunt, willing to hurt Joffrey's betrothed to stay beside the man she loves at any cost, but she is shrewd enough to know that the king holds their mutual future in his hands. Perhaps he will castrate the Lord Commander for breaking his vows and defiling Joffrey's queen. That would irritate Mother and make certain she does not interfere again.

"This is not how it was to be." Is all Mother offers to the girl's unspoken plea, but still Sansa's gaze does not waver from the other woman, her eyes both begging and condemning with the remains of her willfulness. Joffrey does not look away as his uncle penetrates his wife-to-be, nor is he ashamed when he finds his cock just as hard as Jaime's at the cry of pain the young woman releases when her maidenhead breaks. Sansa clenches his hand with almost inhuman strength and he can feel each of his uncle's movements through her arm.

After a moment, Joffrey looks back to his mother, whose face is red with barely-concealed rage. The woman glances from her brother and the girl beneath him, and the King knows anger wells within her, a dam ready to burst at the simplest pressure. Joffrey is bemused at the show; for the trouble she caused him with this escapade, Mother should consider herself lucky this is all he chooses to punish them with. The King looks away, satisfied that his mother suffers sufficiently and knows better than to try a game again with _his_Sansa.

_How much longer can you endure, Mother? I look forward to watching you break._

"My love" Joffrey gives his full attention to Sansa, beautiful in her sorrow, who only whimpers in return. "In her desire for power, my mother manipulates you and seeks to tear us apart. You're safe with me, she'll not control you again." He strokes the top of her hand with his thumb and the tears start to fall, her breaths ragged from both her body's lust and her sadness. Joffrey leans in, ignoring his uncle's well-toned arm, and brushes the droplets from her pale cheek. "Do not worry. Everything will be over soon."

_You belong only to me._


	14. Blood and Water: AryaTywin

**Summary: **Despite the distance from her family, Arya's never felt more alive. AryaTywin.  
**Prompt:** _He brings her with him to King's Landing during the Blackwater, and as she watches him tear down Stannis' troops and retake the city, she finds herself strangely aroused. When the battle's over, the rain falls; it's like something from one of Sansa's silly songs - a first kiss in the rain._

_**Blood and Water**  
_

* * *

She marched with King Robert down the Kingsroad and supped with the royal family at her table.  
She watched as her father was beheaded before her very eyes.  
She faced Ser Gregor and the Tickler, terrifying in ways she doubts she will ever encounter again.

But nothing prepares Arya for the sheer force of Lord Tywin Lannister. Not Tywin the Hand, not Tywin the strategist, nor Tywin the commander; it is only the Lord who demands respect in such a way that makes her heart skip a beat with just a glance.

Tywin's appearance flickers under the torches in the night and Arya's attention has never before been fixated so thoroughly. His armor costs more than most men make in a lifetime; he is muscled very differently from Gendry, but identical power remains beneath each movement; he stands behind an army thousands strong, yet it somehow seems as if he's at its very head. If Arya continued fussing like a girl over the Lannister, she could easily elaborate her observations, but none of them matter; it's his face, his manner, and the memory of his voice that draws her. Her horse is still, so it's not the creature's movement that causes the warming between her legs and in her abdomen, a tingle that seems almost self-aware and spreads as she acknowledges it. Tywin's energy - his very presence - seeps into her. Its touch saps her control and rationality; Arya knows the phrase "stirs the blood," but never understands it with as much clarity as she does on this night.

For a brief moment, the young woman swears Tywin meets her eyes as he looks over the army he commands, but whether it's a delusion or the lord truly distinguishes her from the masses of larger bodies, Arya does not know. His gaze continues as if she is not there, but her breath catches in her throat nonetheless. Even fully aware of how childish her reaction is, fussing over mere eye contact, Arya is unable to stop.

Her hypnosis shatters an instant later, when the Stark recognizes the Lord's spoken command. His voice is inaudible from a distance in the midst of the army, but still he does not shout; to do so would only diminish the effect of his words. Tywin motions his hand - soft hands, she knows, having accidentally touched them in the past - across the army in front of him as the final preparations draw to a close and the horns blare. Arya reigns in her horse preemptively, so that she is not trampled, and watches as the army moves, a ripple of death before her.

The young woman presses her eyes closed for but a second, and listens only to the various war cries. She feels almost like an alien, as she supports neither Casterly Rock nor King Joffrey of the Iron Throne, but also recognizes that her endeavors with the Lannisters – Tywin – prevent her from ever turning back. It gives her some consolation to know that, with Tywin's maneuver and the Tyrell alliance, Stannis is outmatched and the Baratheon army will break. With Stannis' defeat, Robb has one less opponent. The thought is a laughable excuse for her irrational actions, rashly driven by thoughts even she does not understand.

Arya cannot say what happens next. The world seems to spin around her; even well behind the main force of the assault she feels the ground shake. As the battle rages before her, it is no longer clear who is enemy and who is ally - all Arya sees are waves of death, blood, screams, and fire. She feels like she should cry, scream, run away, yet there's nothing. It's frightening, but she holds her ground, armed only with the small dagger and light leathers commissioned for her. The battle washes over her, permeating no deeper than her skin. What happens near the gates to King's Landing feels like a different world; as if to confirm the reality of the situation, she looks over to Tywin, some distance from her on a large horse of his own. He offers her plea no answer; his expression is as neutral as Arya's as he looks upon the carnage.

It is not a battle, but a massacre - a well-timed strategic decision that, despite the brutality of it all, Arya only recognizes as brilliant.

The battle is over before the rear even joins. Cheers erupt, so loudly she must press her hands to her ears and even then they ring through her until she's dizzy and her stomach churns unpleasantly. Seeing the fighting rapidly draw to its close, the Warden of the West spurs his horse forward in silence, surveying the situation. The army fans out at the orders of their lords, some pursuing the retreating Stannis, others securing the city, yet more sent out with purposes Arya is not privy to.

Despite her better sense, Arya does not dismount as she continues forward, alone, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, all looking at her with curiosity and outright hostility before they see the embroidery and colors that name her ally. She draws her horse closer to Tywin, but is immediately greeted by a dozen drawn blades. It takes all of her skill to stop the horse from rearing and throwing her off at the obvious threat.

"Let her pass." It is Ser Kevan who speaks. Arya is fond of him; he always has warm smiles for her. Kevan is well aware of her identity and relationship with his brother, so he offers her a hand to help her down from her horse, but Arya declines with a shake of her head. She commands her horse forward, beyond the guards, to the elder Lannister.

"Lord Tywin." Her voice is almost a whisper against the bellows of those around her, yet she does not increase its volume. Her approach is an action brought on by adrenaline, by desire, by foreign passions she's only ever felt in Tywin's presence - feelings she desperately wants to know again. _You're so stupid_she berates herself, yet makes no effort to cease.

It is some time before Tywin turns his attention towards her, only after he gives his sharp orders, expectedly flat of emotion, but with a body language that reveals his satisfaction. All around them soldiers run about, pushing and pulling, armor bruising her legs as they pass, but as the lord meets her eyes - stern, quiet, solemn, even with a hint of weariness that he does not show in his posture, but Arya reads it easily enough - Arya feels like the world stops around them. Time bends as drops of water fall from the sky, almost purging the stench of battle, cleaning the blood from the streets and restoring King's Landing to a temporary peace.

She does not know why she does it, be it the heat of the moment, the adrenaline that still pumps through her veins, or a simple, hormonal desire, but she moves her horse closer to his. The top of her head dampens from the droplets, but it's secondary, almost as if happens to another person. For just that brief period, all that exists is she and the Lord.

Arya leans over from her horse and kisses him. There is no blush, kindness, or even her previous lust in the test; it's a kiss of relief, perhaps romantic in its own way if either of those involved cared to consider such things. It lasts less than a second, barely even enough to feel his lips beyond a simple brush of flesh before she pulls away. There is no shame in her action, simply accomplishment tinged with a small spice of confusion.

Tywin's eyes widen almost imperceptibly the dark, noticeable only because Arya spends prolonged periods in discussion with the man - longer than she has with anyone else in many moons, even Gendry. The rain falls harder, with large drops that blur her sight and dampen her clothes, and time finally speeds up. The cheers, the torches, the footsteps, the commands, the _smells_- of smoke, of death, of mud and dirt, all return in a flash that overwhelms her senses. So focused is Arya on the world around her that she barely notices the Lord's motion - quick, as fast as the young woman is with her blade. He takes hold of her hand and draws her close with such strength that she could not pull away even if she wanted to. He is not delicate, but also not harsh; Tywin is firm, commanding, and unyielding as he leans her over the gap between them.

Tywin Lannister does nothing in half-measures.

This time, the kiss is not innocent. Arya is intimately aware of everything: the rain, the cheers, the men all around her that she knows look up in shock at the public display, Tywin's smell, and even his very taste - so much like the wine she pours for them in their quiet moments together. It feels so much like one of Sansa's stupid songs that Arya almost - just barely and only for an instant - wishes to push him away. Lord and lady, kissing high above the soldiers after a stunning victory, the heat of battle still surrounding them - perhaps there's some truth to her sister's tales, after all.


	15. Anew: AryaTywin

**Summary: **Tywin lives for the future and the future is now. AryaTywin.  
**Prompt: **_Even now, with her belly fat and growing, she fought him with bared teeth and bitter claws; this child would be the lion his other children failed to become._

**Anew**

* * *

_Throughout history, there are examples of pregnancy and motherhood driving women to strange, wild, and irrational deeds. Tywin finds such exaggerated accounts nonsensical - yet, with his lady wife, there is some truth to the superstitions._

Arya rarely rests in the late stages of her pregnancy, her naps short and fitful, stirred at even the lightest disturbances. Tywin runs a hand over her naked flesh as she sleeps, over the curve of her breasts - enlarged, swollen, tender - and hips – figure enhanced from her normally lean shape - before finally they finally rest on her stomach; she will birth soon, within a moon, he knows, and, this time, it will be different.

"My lord. . ." His touch wakes her and Arya murmurs the words under her breath, still dazed from sleep. She searches instinctively with her hand; Arya's fingers make their way up his body, in the same way his earlier made their way down, until she rests her palm atop his hand on her stomach. The repose slowly fades from her eyes as she looks up into his gaze in a rare moment of intimacy. Her face is plump and pink, her subdued smiles emphasized only by the yellow-brown glow of the candlelight.

_Tywin's wife is not a traditional woman; pregnancy only lowers her inhibitions and suppresses her self-control._

The peace shatters an instant later when Arya's fond smile turns predatory. Her hand clenches tightly around his as she moves closer, her lips finding their way over his arms, shoulders, and up his neck. Grey only leaves green during blinks as Arya pulls herself from her previous resting position to press against him - her breasts are much softer than he remembers - and forces her mouth onto his. The woman's breaths are hot and warm, taste unrecognizable, her kisses too harsh and frantic, too fast and hungry, to allow him time to consider the particulars. After a day of dealing with the ridiculous antics of the court, of games and flattery and utter incompetence, Tywin's cock easily bends to her will, wanting relief as eagerly as his lady wife.

That will not do at all.

Arya seeks no affection from him; the practice is not uncommon in these last days of her pregnancy as she repeatedly mounts him, over and over, until she is exhausted and sore – on multiple occasions Tywin has denied her, lest his work suffer in efficiency or productivity from lack of sleep. She does not do it for duty, as many young wives would for an older husband, nor is she at all shy; her demands - and they are quite that - often amuse him, as she wants to fuck more often than any hormonal young man. There is nothing kind in the way Arya tugs him down atop her and entwines her legs around his, or how her fingers toy and direct his cock. Despite repeated insistence that their bedplay be more subdued, so that Arya does not overexert herself or trigger an early birthing and potentially harm their child, he takes her often and hard when she requests it, for her sake as much as his.

_During the day, Arya paces throughout his chambers, as her larger body prevents her chosen more 'lively' daily activities; some fault is his, he knows, as he demands she always have an attendant or guardian of some sort to aid her in the event of an emergency. She is restless and easily agitated with her limited mobility. On more than one occasion he requested Kevan escort Arya through the gardens to wear some of her excess energy away. Tywin's patience has a limit and its capacity only shrinks daily as his wife's time approaches._

Even what he gives is not enough. Arya attempts to pull him down closer to her, so she can cling and force him faster, to match her feverish pace - a foolish action that Tywin ignores, knowing that she always fails to account for her enlarged stomach in her over-eagerness. Instead he pushes himself into an upward position, balance and power restored, so he can lead her.

"No." She hisses, much like a feral cat - or perhaps a rabid hound.

Before she gives him a chance to reply, Arya flips them over with surprising strength, amusement on her features. For a moment, she sits atop him, rolling her hips into his in such a way that even he cannot suppress his breaths of pleasure, before she begins anew, guiding them both. She's light, despite her added weight, and Tywin pushes himself up to meet her, both at equal height, refusing the position under her. Arya laughs huskily at his reaction and encircles his neck with her arms. She sits hard in his lap atop his cock; her mouth impatiently tastes him and her eyes meet his, open and full of desire. Tywin matches her with equal passion, stirred to action by his lust. Their bodies meet as closely as he dares, their child pressed between them, passion both above and below the roundness of its womb.

_He knows what to expect next in this is a familiar, intimate game of theirs. Instead of becoming emotional or weepy, Arya gets angry and determined - dangerously so._

Arya's nails - they've grown with her less active pregnant lifestyle - dig into his shoulders and tear into his flesh. He grunts heavily into Arya's mouth, but the sound of discomfort only pushes her harder, their coupling heating until his cock nearly burns. Tywin knows his body well; with his blurred thoughts, the way he focuses on little but the hot woman he's inside and his rapid breaths, he knows he'll finish soon - and likely before his insatiable wife.

There is no sentiment in her silent, fierce, willful commands. She makes demands, but pleasures him equally as she pushes herself onto him with all of the snarls and strength of the direwolf she so often claims to be. Tywin leans his head back, finally breaking contact with her eyes. The motion does not sit well with the woman, seemingly enraging her, and she pulls his head up with her hand and bites his lips, hard enough until blood is drawn, until the taste is shared between them.

His wife does not moan beyond gasps of exertion; her jaw is clenched and she hisses _Tywin_under her breath into his ear even as she nips his neck, enough to bruise. She immediately repeats the name, twice more, each heavier than the last, each sending flares of heat through him. The sounds drone in his ears and he releases his seed in her, his body numb as the world slowly returns to clarity. Her nails continue to dig into his shoulders as she finishes herself with a finger, her own breaths returning to normal as she climbs off him.

With annoyance, Arya picks her long-discarded nightshift from the floor and wipes the seed from her thighs before she pushes herself up from the bed awkwardly. Blood slowly trickles down Tywin's arms and back from her deep scratches, the top layer of his flesh torn away nightly. For what little good it does, he dabs at the wounds with his fingers, so that the fluid does not drip and dirty the bed.

"Allow me." Arya returns a moment later and offers him a sincere smile, not quite an apology, as she sits back down, not caring to cover herself. In her hands is a rag and wine goblet, which she's taken to keeping in his room particularly for these times. She carefully dips the rag into the wine and runs the cool, damp cloth over the shallow tears to clean and prevent infection. It is not pleasant, nor is it painful, and Tywin relaxes his posture and allows himself to melt into her hands - softer now, a feather's touch instead of a snake's bite. It is in these quiet moments with her, where they both allow themselves to show some small vulnerability, that Tywin feels most satisfied.

Strong and proud, unflinching and devoted – even as his other children fail to uphold his legacy, the future grows anew.


	16. Phantasm: JaimeSansa

**Summary: **Sansa wears many masks; this one is the most painful. Jaime/Sansa.  
**Prompt: **_Mommy!kink. Jaime lacked a mother figure during his formative years, and now, in his middle age, he's experiencing some regression angst. Fortunately for him, the maternal instinct comes very naturally to Sansa, and she's more than willing to help._

**Phantasm**

* * *

_She doesn't know when it started -_

"Stop fidgeting or I'll send you to the Maester. This needs to be wrapped." Sansa scolds him with exasperation and tugs at the cloth over his shoulder for emphasis. The scuffles occur far more frequently than is acceptable for a man in his position, she reminds him daily. He pays as much heed to her scolding as he would a mosquito and instead continues with his own obstinate remarks. The young woman keeps a tight smile on her lips and focuses on her work instead of Jaime's rants and excuses.

_- or perhaps it's always been this way._

"Tell me one of your Northern tales." He murmurs once she finally finishes and they sit together at the end of her bed, atop its thick furs. Sansa recognizes the ruse; Jaime is indifferent towards any dismissal and will not give her time to herself. She's proven correct a moment later when she offers no reply; Jaime only pushes the cloth from her lap to give himself room. She barely holds in her annoyance as the man invites himself into a position beside her, head in her lap.

When he looks up at her with his wide, determined eyes, Sansa knows this is not a battle she will win.

_Sansa knows the role she is expected to play -_

Sansa's hands find their way onto her lap to rest beside Jaime. One hand strokes his face, the other his hair as she whispers Old Nan's tales with fond nostalgia. A warm, wistful expression colors her features as she looks down at her companion, voice soft and musical as she elaborates, surprised she still remembers the stories at all. The tales come to life as easily as they did when she was a child, vivid fantasies dancing off her lips, eliciting images and feelings believed forgotten.

Jaime's boredom overcomes his sense before she's even halfway through, his attention diverted like a child's in the presence of a gift. His hand plays at the skirts pooled around her on the bed, pulling them up and exposing her thighs.

"Jaime. . ." She warns as she stops her tale and turns her attention to his mischief.

_- or perhaps it's no longer "playing" - for either of them._

The man looks thoroughly roguish as he meets her eyes, but he is not forceful. Stubborn, with a tinge of lust, most certainly, but what she recognizes most is an earnest desire for her approval.

After all - it is a mother's duty to be firm, but also kind and welcoming.

Sansa leans down and offers him a chaste kiss on the forehead as her only response. Anything more would break the illusion.

_Jaime loves her thoroughly and absolutely -_

Her consent releases Jaime's dam of patience and his fingers immediately find their way to her bodice with almost vicious impatience. Before he can tug at it, an act she's grown to expect, Sansa stops him – she refuses to permit the continuation of _that_particular bad habit. Instead she works at the ties with her fingers as calmly as she can with Jaime's lips playing at her newly-exposed shoulders and neck, and then down and down as she removes her clothes, exploring her body.

Sansa urges him forward with welcoming strokes, and draws him close, to warm her in the chill, as she assists him with his breeches and removes his shirt.

She never returns his kisses, but not out of lack of desire.

_- even if it is not Sansa he sees._

It is Sansa who leads their bedding, who guides Jaime. He expects her to be firm, to command, but as tolerant as Sansa is of Jaime's will, she will not change who she is. Instead, she prefers to instruct him, and Jaime is only too eager to learn. The firmer she is in her lessons, the more he wants her; Jaime only needs to be shown once what she enjoys.

The moan she makes is so high it resembles a squeal and Sansa must bite her lip to not draw her guards into her chamber.

_He no longer calls for "Cersei" when he finishes -_

Long after they've exhausted themselves - deep into the depths of the night, when the bugs chirp, the night birds hoot, and the wolves call - Sansa rests beside Jaime. She holds him in her arms protectively as he leans his back into her, their hands clutched, and kisses his cheek with her earlier distance, soft and affectionate. They are not Sansa's kisses; they are the kisses of the woman Jaime wants her to be.

_- yet, somehow, their schism is wider than ever._


	17. The Price of Practicality: AryaTywin

**Summary:** Arya learns an unconventional lesson.  
**Prompts:  
**_A practical education._  
and  
_He is not a nice man, not at all, but he is nice to her.  
_**Note:**You may have seen this, and a few of my other stories, over on AO3 before I finally decided to bring them over here.

_**The Price of Practicality**_

* * *

"Lady Arya."

Tywin's attention remains concentrated on his parchment as he speaks the quiet summons, words as firm as if he held a blade to her throat, despite their relatively neutral tone. The Warden of the West stubbornly persists in using her ridiculous title, dismissing any of Arya's requests that call her otherwise, her protests entirely futile – as they often are, when it comes to the lord's will. If the appellation was spoken by any other man, she would have been utterly certain the intention was to annoy or insult her, but formality runs through Tywin's bones and the name falls as easily from his lips as his breaths. In attempt to hold back the annoyed retort that persistently seeks escape – there is no purpose in provoking him for something so banal, she convinces herself - Arya grits her teeth and places her book aside as she rises from her chair to approach the desk.

He's working again, finishing the missives, and Arya pushes down her reckless desire to snatch the parchments from the desk and burn them. He always works – even when he is not acting as Hand, he is a lord. Tywin never sheds his mask; there is a man below the facade of Lord Tywin, but it shows so rarely that Arya only recognizes him once he's gone. It always makes her uncomfortable to see Tywin so steadfast - not because of whom he is or what he's done, but because it reminds Arya who _she_ is and what she's _not_done. Responsibility is a difficult mantle to wear. To distract herself from such unpleasant thoughts, Arya focuses her curiosity on the letter Tywin writes, but by the time she draws near enough to read its contents, the Hand folds it closed. He looks up knowingly, fully expecting her actions, but nonetheless speaks offhandedly, as if his mind is already elsewhere, attention already diverted to his next objective or goal.

"Your opponent is intelligent, undefeated in the field, and his lands are large and difficult conquer through conventional means." The statement is absurdly out of place and abrupt. She feels as if she's missed half of their conversation, yet Tywin makes no effort to clarify; his eyes bore holes into her as he awaits her response, as if he can read her every thought as clearly as the words on a parchment.

"No one is without weaknesses." Arya's reply is hesitant, but she knows it is the answer he expects. There is no firmer lesson that he teaches her, and it is one he reminds her of it daily, be it in their strange contests, or by exemplifying her weaknesses.

He nods and continues on as if assured she understands the subject he speaks of. "His is a woman."

Arya recognizes this game, this ploy he's fond of - and they are quite that: games. Tywin teases her with droplets of information and makes certain that she pieces together the clues in precisely the manner he wishes. In many cases the answers are obvious, but they never fail to make her think, to help her understand the patterns the Hand's mind draws upon. No doubt the confusion is intentional; hiding his expectations is yet another part of the dance. "I suppose killing the woman is out of the question?"

"Doing so holds no strategic purpose beyond enraging your opponent." He scolds, no doubt expecting that answer. Enraging the opponent leads to brash, irrational responses and attacks, she wants to point out, but Tywin continues before Arya can do more than open her mouth. "An angered commander has its uses, true enough, but this particular woman is more valuable alive. Their relationship causes dissent between the lord and his men."

Arya's annoyance stirs and she feels very much like she's being mocked. It is all so obvious - the young woman could have given Tywin the same answer before she knew anything about wars or strategy.

"Contact the dissenters. If the man is undefeatable by conventional means, then he will fall to his allies." Arya wonders what her father would think at the assured answer. She doubts he would approve of the tactical decisions, along with a great many things she's done out of necessity for survival since leaving King's Landing.

All Tywin offers her is a nod, satisfied and pleased. Their game is over, unprecedentedly short, simple, and out of place. There was no critical thinking to be had, no lessons to be learned, just straightforward questions that serve only to confound her. Arya remains dumbly in place and feels incredibly daft, as if she missed an integral step in Tywin's complex dance.

Instead of offering any elaboration, the Hand simply seals the parchment with assured finality.


	18. Indiscernible: Arya, Cersei

**Summary:** Arya, Cersei, hate. No pairings.  
**Note:** No prompt, just a small random drabble.

**_Indiscernible_**

* * *

She claims she is her father's daughter, but there are more differences than similarities.

She grasps, claws, screams, and digs her heels in against the persistent tide, struggling to define herself, regardless of expectations. Determination defines her; it embeds itself within her very bones, much like a harsh winter chill or a sweet summer breeze.

The sands slip from beneath her feet.

_They meet each others eyes with equal disdain, faces only barely masking mutual disgust. Were they not in the presence of others, they would not bother with such facades._

There might once have been dreams of love and happiness, but they've long since withered away, like a crumbling petal of a flower; all that remains is the sickly sweet scent of burning potpourri and its tasteless ashes.

She wonders if any gentleness remains, hidden behind tatters of the girl she once was.

_Cersei turns from the loathsome child, but is ever aware of her shadow's flicker across the desk, intertwined with the Stark's, impossible to discern or distinguish._


End file.
